


TDWP: On an Altar

by bearblue



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Complete, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearblue/pseuds/bearblue
Summary: Andy Sach's Aunt Dorene sends her a gift which changes her life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Words: 29500 +
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, which pretty well guarantees that " ownership, " of the characters belongs to others (Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox) and that this work is entirely based on affection. This is not-for-profit, but for praise or at least enjoyment.
> 
> Beta Readers: Thank yous go to - Melanacious, LadyDragonstorm and Bonnie - my extraordinary friends.
> 
> A/N - This is a one shot, "get 'em together," short story.
> 
> A/N - This fiction likely draws from several TDWP sources for inspiration - it mostly follows movie canon as a starting point, however.
> 
> A/N - I hereby label this story AU. Just in case. Because this may involve magic. And while I personally believe that magic exists, there are those among us who need this disclaimer. So for purposes of respect to the cooperative multi-verse in which we live: *stamp* AU *endstamp*
> 
> A/N - I have decided, just for my sanity, that family names and really good friend names shall remain generally consistent. Thus, Andy's father's is Richard and her mother is CeCe, etc. This will go for Miranda's family if they ever reveal themselves. Also, just for purposes of declaration, I've been working on two other longer-term Devil Wears Prada fan-fics for months and months. They are unfinished, and I haven't decided to post them. They are not "On A..." They actually came first. However, the family rule, shall remain consistent. Which means I may have to go back and do some editing...
> 
> A/N - This story has may have angst, but it ends well.
> 
> LJ Tags: all: fiction, user: bearblue, rating: nc-17, pairing: andy/miranda, status: completed, genre: romance

TDWP: On an Altar pt. 1

Andy stared at the "care" package her aunt sent her. It was, at the moment, a simple, but large brown box, which had been delivered by men of size and power, up five floors. She was aware that the sleek lines might be deceptive. One just never knew with her Aunt Dorene. Last year one of her cousins had received a painted yurt, which had oddly come in handy after the tornado. Her cousin was still living in that yurt, apparently happy with their new "green" lifestyle. And now married, which was completely unexpected by everyone; except, apparently, her aunt.

Andy did not really want a yurt. She liked living in New York and suspected there weren't too many places to put one. She also wasn't feeling the green thing much. She liked her comfort, even if, at the moment, her apartment was a shade on the bare side.

Not that a yurt was guaranteed. The year before the cousin's yurt, another cousin had received a book, which was unusual, as they were well known for their loathing of said items. Now they were in college and apparently doing well. Also married.

Then there was her sister, Rachel, a few years ago. She had graduated college, had scads of boyfriends, loads. Then one day her aunt gifts her with a tiny statue, just something for the coffee table of her new apartment. A year later, Rachel was married.

Andy knew one thing from her year and a half long stint at a newspaper, twice is coincidence. Three times is a common thread, and could be the beginning of a pattern.

Thus, she gazed upon the box, which was taking up a good portion of the apartment's space, with suspicion. She also decided she wasn't opening it; there were too many variables and truthfully, she had no interest in change. She liked her life. It was enough.

She had made it so.

And, even if she believed, which she didn't, she had no interest in getting married.

She would call her aunt and say thanks, but no thanks, and send the package back, as soon as reasonably possible.

She ended up talking to her mother first, because she called. And because she called, Andy shared; which may have been a mistake.

"Nonsense," Cecilia "CeCe" Sachs stated without any hesitation at all. Cece was light to her husband's dark, short to his tall, and they both shared each other's heart with great intensity. Andy only wished she'd someday find something that awesome; apparently it wasn't with Nate. "Your aunt and I were simply discussing the fact that since our last visit, it seemed as if you were too busy to go out looking for furniture."

Andy could not exactly argue that. But then, it was not as if she needed a lot. She lived alone. "But mom, I don't think you're hearing what I'm..."

"No buts, Andrea Sachs." Oops, that tone was not one that a person argued with. "You will not embarrass your aunt by rejecting her thoughtful generosity. The only thing I want to hear coming out of your aunt's mouth when we talk is that you thanked her for it. You can sell it if you dislike it. But wait six months and at least look at it, so when you describe it to Dorene you're not lying. It's only decent."

And that, was that.

Andrea wondered briefly if her other cousin had a similar conversation with their mom when they got the yurt. Maybe she was just imagining things.

The writer sat on the edge of her lumpy couch and pondered the box and wondered if Pandora was really all that curious; after all, she knew the danger. Maybe her mom made her open it.

It was a piece of furniture, like her mother hinted. It was not a coffee table, nor a table table. It was more like an end table, except it was a little large and a little tall and broad. It was surprisingly sturdy; as if it might have been a set of drawers or a cabinet in some other lifetime. Or maybe that was just the way the artist designed it. The object came with a signed affidavit regarding the numbers made. At first Andy thought that her Aunt Dorene had sent her a very fancy stand up desk. She'd read about those and heard that they were a popular option for some offices. Then she found the books, tucked into a smaller box at the bottom of the now broken down larger box.

Andy set the books on the flat surface and opened the top one, which revealed a note from her aunt. The note started, "I saw this and thought of you."

That raised the hairs on Andy's neck, but she read on. Apparently it was an art piece that the artist described as an altar. Andy still thought it looked like a desk, given the width and the burnished walnut. But her aunt, much taken with it, thought perhaps her niece would enjoy it and as she had space, that it might find a place in her home. She sent the books about altars, since she thought that went with the topic and she hoped that Andy enjoyed it all.

"Well," said the brunette, "That was innocuous enough." She stood back from it, noted the filigree and the studs. It was a nice piece of furniture and obviously was going to last a long time. She wasn't sure she saw the art in it, but then, who knew. It could be worth something. And really, sometimes she did want to type standing up. Or it might be nice just to put stuff on.

Her mom was right. She was reading too much into things.

"But why did an altar make you think of me?" Andy asked, once she'd dutifully managed the thank you. The conversation was actually going pretty well. Aunt Dorene was just glad the box had arrived safely.

"Oh, it just did. I remembered you worked in that art magazine."

Andy blinked. "You mean Runway? That's ..."

"Yes. That one. Anyhow, I went to a gallery and there was this piece, very stylish. It just spoke." Andy looked at the altar again and really failed to hear anything. Her aunt continued, "And then I had a chance to talk to the artist, a lovely woman. Tall and creative like yourself. Why, I knew then it had to be for you."

"Aunt Dorene, how much did you pay for this?"

"Oh, now, let's not talk money." Her aunt sounded obviously pleased, almost flattered, which made Andy's gut sink a little. That meant a lot. A lot lot. Not that Aunt Dorene couldn't afford it, but it did mean Andy wasn't selling anything for a long time. "So," said Aunt Dorene, "Tell me what you've been doing?"

A late, boring night later, Andy cracked open one of the books. She was at work, where it was air-conditioned and quiet. She'd filed her pages, but was waiting on some editing work from one of her co-workers. She wasn't hungry and she wasn't ready to go home.

The book was oversized, a hardback, but it was light enough to carry in her bag. She let her fingers run over the pages, enjoying the feel of them. It was a colorful text, filled with images and examples; one of the reasons she'd chosen it. She brought the book up, to sniff it and smiled, both in pleasure and in the realization that her aunt knew her well enough to send a new book. Then, in careful motions, she prepped the pages so the spine wouldn't split later. The book would, with care, last a long time, whether she kept it or not.

After her ritual acquainting, she began to read. "The history of the altar begins with the dawn of mankind..."

She forgot to go home.

A lot of reading and studying and pondering and some days later, Andy put her first item on the altar. The one thing she'd learned or felt she understood was that each altar was a reflection of the person who utilized, created with it. She realized she would feel inauthentic and silly if she attempted to follow certain traditions. When she'd read that some altars were simply composed of precious items, like family photos or things a person wanted to remember, she realized that was the niche she understood most. Thus, the first item was a photo of her family, which she had specially framed to match the wood. When she positioned it, first trying one corner, than the other, she realized that aesthetics were also involved. This was a small, but potent revelation.

When working for Runway, Andy had two cellphones. The one from work, which had landed in the fountain and the one that was her own, which she'd kept as a back up, because battery life was never long enough. She had drastically weeded her address list, but there were some numbers that she simply could not delete; ones where she'd found allies and connections in areas of expertise, ones which gave her access to great food or deals, ones which belonged once to friends, and one in particular that she should not have kept, but could not, for the life of her, bring herself to delete no matter how often she tried; which for awhile had been daily, then weekly, then monthly. Then one day she forgot to try.

The danger lay in its positioning, so she did not forget to always be careful about which number she summoned and pressed when making certain phone calls.

The awareness about aesthetics had led to a series of deep, deep contemplations, which had led her to certain explorations and travels through the city and near parts, some more arcane than others. Her experiences colored and tinted her freelance writing, though she was very careful to keep her writing for the Mirror quite clean and particular to their style. Ideas and connections formed as she explored galleries, museums, churches, houses of couture, and even, in what few spare hours she had, took some classes.

She realized that journalism had been very interesting to her because it was a form of examination; though it was expressed through formulas which held certain limitations. She realized, at last, that there was a difference between writing and reporting, and that while reporting held a definite skill, writing held a definite creative power. She reported for the newspaper. She wrote for herself. Both were forms of meditation.

A journal found its way to her altar; one which held not just her written notes, but also some drawings or interesting images that caught her eye or notations on colors or connections. She wrote about what she saw, what she thought, what she dreamed. She wrote about what she learned and could understand and what she could not grasp. She wrote about relationships, found and lost or never happened. The journal was replaced with a new one almost every month.

The sixth month, after Aunt Dorene sent Andy her altar, she sent another cousin a gift. Three months later they were in a new relationship. Andy was not.

She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. She settled for neither and focused on her reflections, learned how to meditate with an Om, took up sketching and drawing with more fervor, and haunted the Metropolitan.

When at the museum, she drew what she saw. When on her own, she drew what she felt. Sometimes she felt skirts, sometimes hats, sometimes slacks and blouses and jewelry and sometimes she felt other things. She was aware of the irony and knew it meant she had to be working something out; but she could not seem to help herself. Sometimes she drew nature and parks and people walking by and architectural structures. She learned how to draw with colored pencils and a few markers. She bought several books which demonstrated how and those classes she had been taking started gelling for her. She let her mind go where it will. The journal and the box of color, when not on her altar, went everywhere with her. She just drew and wrote and thought; a lot.

Sometimes she would cry, for no particular good reason; or a couple of very particular reasons. She put a box of kleenex on her altar for those days.

She dreamed of Miranda.

This had been her problem, her bane, since the days of Runway. It never stopped, not like she thought it would when she finally quit. The dreams, she had slowly come to realize, were not mere stress reactions.

They were, however, mostly in black, white and greys.

Thanks to meditation and therapy, she had finally come to, if not embrace them, accept them.

One day, nearly a year after her aunt's gifting, she dreamed a dream of Miranda in color.

She dreamt of a red dress, with a bow in the front, of a conversation held with her mentor afterwards. She dreamt about the bow untying and wrapping itself around a naked editor-in-chief, as if she were an exotic gift. She dreamt of unwrapping that gift in slow, delicious motion.

She woke up panting and hot, and at the same time ecstatic. Not because of the arousal, which was a familiar companion when it came to a certain person, but because she finally understood something that had been bothering her for a couple of years.

She had to call Nigel and she had to do it now, even though she was still sleepy and it was still dark. He would understand and if he didn't, he'd hang up. It wouldn't be the first time they'd talked in the wee hours. Sometimes he woke her with these kind of things.

Eyes mostly closed, she opened her most called list and realized that it had actually be a little while since she and he had talked. So she pulled up the address book, and let her fingers walk through the rote motions as her mind, which was caught up in the epiphany, tried to sort out what she would say, so she wouldn't waste his time, but could express what she knew now. She glanced at the address book briefly and then at the alarm clock by her bed. He'd be up soon anyhow. She pressed a button.

The phone rang, once, twice. It picked up.

She started talking immediately. "Nigel. Hey. Sorry to wake you, but I had to call. I had to let you know that I get it. I get it finally. You were right. It's art. It's all art. And she's a genius. I get that now. I mean, beyond business acumen, which I knew that part. I mean, she may actually be an artist. You know. I mean... well, I don't know what I'm trying to say. Except, the belts were different. Which makes no sense. Let me try this. I dreamed about … well... You remember the James Holt thing, the one with the red dress. I understood finally, why she did what she did. I mean, she had to right, because it was on the front. What the fuck was he thinking? Well, like I would have known at the time, but now, I realize, the bow was too large and it belonged in the back, it had nothing to do with the series he was talking about - east met west and he'd already used red. Which, I know this doesn't make sense, necessarily, because well, it was years ago, but I just wanted to say, I got it. It's been bugging me for years, but I got it at last. Anyhow, thanks for listening, Nige. I can tell you're still half asleep because you haven't said anything. Or maybe I'm just talking too fast. I know. I'm excited. I gotta go draw and fix that, not that it's my dress or anything, I'm think I'm going to try a plum and see how that looks, but I'll do it in red too just so I can remember what I said about it. Oh and the dream, my god. Yes, I'm still hot and bothered by her, what can I say? I didn't even know ribbons could go there. And hey, I hope you have a great day okay! See ya!"

She closed the phone with a snap and sighed in relief. Then, still groggy, she went to her altar to fetch her journal.

Hours later, when at work, Andy got a lead to a story that she'd been working on. She tried to be interested in it. She even followed up, but as she sat their listening to the new contact natter on, her mind kept drifting all the way back to the James Holt incident.

When the person paused for breath, Andy lifted her hand for the waiter. She said, "You know, that's all very interesting, but I may not be the reporter for you. Let me call a friend and pay for lunch. Thanks for coming."

Feeling slightly less claustrophobic, she stepped out of the diner onto the street and started walking. She pulled out her phone and hit redial without even a second thought. It rang once, twice, then was picked up. "Hey. Yeah. Nigel." She didn't mean for the words to fall out of her mouth, but they did and she knew it was true and once again, she was speaking like quickfire. "I'm going to India. I was thinking, you know, the whole problem with the James Holt thing... OH, I know, years and years old, we did say, but the problem was, I don't think he'd even ever been East. I mean, I did some research and that obi idea, that's all he had? Really! So again, she had to say no, because for an east-met-west set, it was much, much more west. There has to be more. So, I'm going to be doing some traveling. I think, if you're going to make something based on a culture, you have to at least have been there. Plus, you know, I'll probably look at a few more altars. Nige, are you listening? Oh, wait, I'm probably interrupting something. One more thought, no two, and then I'll go. You'll be proud. I'll visit f... fff... dang it, my therapist and I talked about this, fine, I'm just gonna have to swear it, forgive me. Fucking France. Whew. There. I'm going back there, because if I go east, then it makes sense I have to go west. It'll be a few months. I'll send pictures and maybe some sake when I get to Japan. Oh, and Nige, don't worry about calling back, I get that you're busy. Thanks for listening. Love ya buddy."

==TDWP==

Miranda stared at the name and number that was displayed on her cell and then slowly, thoughtfully clicked it closed. She swiveled her chair back until she was facing the door and dropped the phone on her desk. She let an exhale flow out her nose, seeking a form of calm, if not the essence.

Two calls.

Two calls and her day had been spun around like a disk.

Miranda lifted the glass of water on her desk and took a sip from it. "Emily. Coffee." she called out. This was a little more true than normal. She'd been awake for hours, unable to go to sleep since that first call. It wasn't just about the phone call, there were other details that had her restless.

She had been surprised at how pleased she'd been to hear that voice, after so long. She'd enjoyed the warmth in it, though it had been directed toward someone else at the time. It had been, oddly refreshing. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the sound of Andrea's voice, or that she'd found it unique at all.

She was aware the contact was not intentional; neither call had been. She was also aware that she had learned a very great deal in a very short amount of time. Andrea Sachs dreamed of her; often enough that she had regular conversation about it. That was an interesting tidbit, but it wasn't the only one. Andrea, it seemed, had been more affected, in fact, one might guess, very deeply affected, by certain events than Miranda had believed or understood. She was also, apparently, experiencing a personal renaissance. She was drawing? That was very intriguing. Miranda wondered if she was any good, or if it was just some doodles. She knew how it could be. Even if one developed an aesthetic sense, it did not guarantee one could produce. But... but... Andrea, … admired... her, in several different kinds of ways it seemed.

That was wholly unexpected, on several levels.

The editor wasn't quite sure what to do with the knowledge she now had, but apparently she had time to think about it. She wondered if the young woman was serious about going to India, and if she did, what she might find. On the other hand, flights of fancy took everyone. She knew Andrea had a steady job and how unlikely was the Mirror to just let her go on any sort of extended leave.

No. Andrea would probably do the same thing Mr. Holt had done, a little web browsing and call it good. Especially once she found out how much a flight to India cost these days.

That had been a very disappointing collection. Miranda remembered it quite clearly. And that's when she'd decided Nigel couldn't possibly go to work for James. He needed someone who had vision and was willing to do the work for it. The promotion she'd given him, however, had gone a long way toward soothing ruffled feathers.

She was glad she'd spared them all the fall out from a flop of collection and found it oddly warming that now she was not the only one who understood why she'd had to reject the whole thing. Even Nigel had missed some of those details. So interesting that Andrea had made the connection, even more so considering the time and events between then and now. She wondered what the young woman was wearing these days.

Not that Andrea could afford couture right now, not on that salary. No, it was probably jeans and jackets. At least she'd learned to choose items that flattered the figure.

Miranda took a moment to focus on the files on her desk. After all, she had work to do. She fought back a yawn.

"Where is my coffee! Did she go all the way to Columbia?"

==TDWP==

Andrea boarded the plane with some trepidation. She'd tried to quit her job, but her editor had not let her. He'd simply insisted on copy from wherever she landed. "We'll do some tourism spots. It'll be great. Just make sure you send something every week." She had double-leased her apartment to Doug, who had just broken up with his latest boyfriend. She was flying on a budget, one that meant she flew coach no matter how one cut it. But she was going and she was going to learn and have fun. Who knew what lay ahead?


	2. Chapter 2

TDWP: On an Altar pt. 2

As promised, Andy sent her first piece for the Mirror almost as soon as she got off the plane. She wanted to send it while it was fresh and her thoughts uncomplicated by anything else other than her experience as a traveler on the airlines. Just delineating the process of going through security, getting on the plane and leaving, seemed like a good and natural place to start. She didn't know if the paper would use it, but she had fun writing it.

She had more fun living the experience once arrival was sure. India was a vast country, with rich and colorful histories and cultures that spanned the ages. She dove in, let herself get lost, and discovered more than she ever thought possible.

==TDWP==

Nigel stood beside Miranda, examining a spread with a critical eye, "I had hoped that brightening would make a difference," he said, "But as you can see, it's still too dark." He flexed his hand expressively at the photo in question. "I do wish this photographer would move to digital. It would make the editing easier; or at least the selection. We do have some possible alternatives."

Miranda exhaled, "Well, at least you caught it early." She flipped a file folder open and examined the suggested possibilities. She picked a candidate and handed it to Nigel. "This one, but none of the others. If this won't fit, it's a reshoot."

"Right."

The silver haired woman lifted memo from Irv and resisted an eyeroll. Once again he complained about the spending, obviously having not even looked at the actual budget; which they were under. "Have you received any images from Andrea yet?"

Nigel went very still, very quiet, but only for a few moments. She did not look up at him, but picked up a list of advertisers. She said, "Wait a moment to answer that. Emily. Emily! This list is incomplete. Find Jocelyn and tell her that I expect a complete list by the end of the day and that if she doesn't manage it, she will be personally responsible for ferrying the goods for the run-through. I can't have my assistants doing her work." She swiveled in her chair and looked at the bald man in wire-frame glasses. "Well?"

He drew in a breath, wondering how Miranda knew and if Andy did and then realized it didn't matter. He had a living to make. "She's sent me a few things." He did not mention that it was actually quite a bit more than a few or that he found them remarkable or praiseworthy. From Andy's perspective, she was simply sharing with a friend. So he had addressed his replies as such. Of course, he wished she'd told him she'd be traveling, but once he realized she was actually out there in the world, he was quite pleased for her. And he did not hesitate to ask for small favors or accept the tokens she sent. In fact, the twisted silver ring he was wearing now was a piece she'd sent him. He liked it very much. That young lady had developed quite an eye.

"Fine, I would like to see what she's sent, along with any pertinent notes related to them. I will take digitized copies and you may excise any personal information you find necessary, though I'd rather see whole pieces if they explicate her thinking." The woman, beautiful and graceful, stood up and walked around Nigel, who was gaping. She turned just before she exited, "That's all."

==TDWP==

The newest Emily delivered the clippings from the Mirror and sundry other papers that the editor-in-chief requested. It was nothing unusual. From her perspective this was how it always was. They were added to the stack of 'input'; those competitor or source magazines that were normally spread upon Miranda's desk in the morning. If the fashion icon liked a clipping, it went into a file, with name of author, title, and periodical in the Morgue, like all the others. Whole magazines were stored in the art library for future access. Really important articles were digitized and stored on the network server so Miranda could call it up at any time, as needed.

The editor-in-chief was reading one of Andy's latest globe-trotter pieces, when Nigel entered the office the next day. He laid thumb-drives on her desk, as well as two file folders. "I picked out some pieces I thought you might find interesting," he said. "You can keep the the digitized copies, but I would like..." Now he had her attention and swallowed slightly, "... if possible, I'd like any originals back."

She took off her glasses and cocked her head, tapping the end piece against her chin lightly. "I see." She glanced down and then back up.

"Does she..." He started and then stopped, reminding himself that asking Miranda anything had its perils. "If she doesn't know," he revised, "... and you decide you want to use something..."

Her expression remained open, and even filtered curiosity, because his words held the belief that she would want to.

He continued, "... then perhaps we will need to talk about how to, uhm, convey that information."

Miranda cocked a brow, then said, "In the unlikely event, we will treat her like any other freelance artist, writer or photographer. However, her by-line will run by her initials until such time as she and I have a chance to talk about proper leave-of-employment etiquette."

"Ah." Nigel said, not quite having a riposte for that. "In that case, I suppose I'll act as go-between."

She glanced down and let her fingertips slide over one of the plain Manila folders. "Acceptable. I will leave you to arrange any contract, should the issue come up. That's all." Not that she had any intention at all of letting an ex-employee, even one she might, maybe, no-not-at-all miss, add content to her magazine. She had to have standards.

With this in mind, she decided that given that it wasn't really a Runway topic, she wouldn't look at it until she had some unrelated free time. She gathered the folders and the thumb-drives and put them in her miscellaneous drawer for later.

==TDWP==

Later turned out to be weeks and months. Free time was a scarce commodity, one the fashion maven needed for her children and events that shored up her power. She did not forget, which she proved by continuing to put the query to Nigel, until she no longer had to. She did note that he no longer brought any originals, but it was, she acknowledged without heat, a logical choice. She had yet to return the contents of the folders he had brought.

Her time was full; as apparently was Andrea's whose articles indicated she'd traversed north and eastward from India and then westward and eventually, the editor had concluded, in just whatever direction happened to strike her fancy. The tone of her writing stayed light and informative, consistent. It was very journalistic. Miranda realized after reading several, that Andrea tailored the articles specifically for her audience and the newspaper and yet, somehow, she could still hear the younger woman's voice in her head when she read them.

She missed that voice, even more since those calls. The more she admitted the fact to herself, the more she realized she missed other things, like the scent the young woman wore or the way she moved her hands and even the nervous stutter when she was confused or surprised.

She dearly missed surprising Andrea.

Mostly, she missed her presence, which she realized had come to soothe her in an addictive way, like coffee. Going without had been as exacting and harsh as withdrawal, only in some ways worse. She was not "over" Andrea Sachs. She wasn't even entirely sure she was adapted. She merely compensated. Usually through sacrificial victims on bad days. But then, that had always been the case. It was just more so now.

The editor, who was not one to lie to herself, regardless of other great performances to the world when convenient, realized that it probably wasn't just time keeping her from opening her miscellaneous drawer to withdraw items from it. It was that, in some ways, that was all of Andrea she had now and she wanted to keep it, seen or unseen. And as long as she hadn't looked, she did not have to give it back.

==TDWP==

Now and then Andrea returned home, pausing the great motion of her life to regroup and contemplate. She moved during one of those occasions, letting go of the old apartment in favor of a refurbished loft in a restructured warehouse. She could afford it now, due to a few savvy choices and the expertise of a friend. During the move, the altar got bumped, though not broken. But the shake up revealed the reason why it reminded her of a set of drawers or a desk. It had a drawer in it, and within that space was another small box; a gift from her aunt Dorene, which had lain dormant and undiscovered. It was, according to the instructions, a portable altar, one that could be taken on trips and carried around like a laptop.

In some ways, the timing was perfect. Andrea had learned more uses of an altar in her travels and had come to appreciate them in a deeper way. She owned meditation beads and practiced a very personal philosophy that was still evolving. She'd contemplated buying an altar to take on trips, but had learned to make them on the fly and had no real need for one. But she was more touched by the gesture than she might have been in the past.

She opened the wrapping and caressed the wood with sensitized fingertips, felt the hint of care that the maker had put into it and respected the craftsmanship, the artistry, that had made the fine design. She decided, though she did not need it, she would take the altar with her on her other journeys.

After she finished the move, she contacted those friends who she had not spoken with in awhile and saw a few of them, including Doug and Nigel. She introduced them at dinner, explaining that Doug was her accountant and Nigel was her friend and expert at large. While there, they talked of many things, and she shared some thoughts about what she expected to be doing in the next round of travels. Her only grief, was that with all serenity she'd ingrained, she still could not say the word France without swearing. She only hoped the trip would cure her of it. As it was, she called it, "That Place," and those who knew her best knew what she meant.

Nigel recommended she visit the wine country first and said, "Maybe that will help."

She wasn't sure anything ever would, given the reasons why she had she difficulty, but she accepted the words from the generous point which they were meant. She then asked them if they would do her the favor of sending her their measurements; for a gift. Since she was going to fashion mecca, they might as well benefit from it.

Neither man disagreed.

Over the next few months, Nigel's wardrobe expanded and he loved it. Tailored pieces arrived by courier on a semi-regular basis. He enjoyed every one of them, since they all came from very reputable places, but there was one particular outfit, by one particular artist, which he had to argue and beg Andrea to send him. He'd finally had to pull a Miranda and said, "I want it for my birthday, if you can't do it, don't send me anything else, because I don't want anything else."

It shouldn't have worked, since he knew, now, that Andrea could be just as stubborn and willful as his old friend. But he had been betting on her generous heart and that bet had won.

The suit, when it arrived, was brilliant. It literally took his breath away. He'd grinned like a madman when he saw the hand-stitched labels, the inlaid buttons, the handcrafted leather belt. From jacket, to vest, to silk shirt and slacks, each piece was perfection and worked in total harmony. She'd even sent him new patent leather shoes to match and another silver ring, as well as a handcrafted lapel pin and cuff-links with specifically chosen brilliant stones in them and the imprint of a number where it could not be seen. He'd uttered one word, and that lasted him through the evening, every time he glanced at the outfit hanging in its protective bag on the door-frame, waiting to be worn. "Wow."

He didn't plan on eating at all once he began wearing the suit, because it would be sacrilege to even chance marring the outfit with a spill. But he knew, absolutely, that he would be wearing it on his birthday and he would do so with pride.

More, he knew then, that Andy was a friend beyond price.

==TDWP==

Miranda attended many kinds of events, balls and soirees, but she rarely attended birthday parties. She made exceptions for high profile people, her children and certain family members, and real friends. She only stayed any length of time for her children and one time (it was rumored) for a husband of yore, but otherwise it was a visit of in and out, usually lasting maybe ten minutes; fifteen max.

Nigel was counted among her real friends, though it had taken him time to realize it. But he did after Paris, when he watched the fallout of James Holt Industry from a nice, safe cushy space and knew that she had protected him, not stabbed him in the back; just failed, as usual, to explain. Added on top of that, she had made the loss up to him, anyway. Though that had happened sometimes in round-about ways; after the raise in pay.

So, he was not surprised when she had RSVP'd the invitation.

"Gird your loins," he'd whispered into Doug's ear the night before. "She is a force to reckon with, but don't bow and scrape. She's just another person when she's in our home."

"She's Miranda Priestly."

"Exactly. My friend."

His younger lover had blinked at him, then had nodded. "You're right. I'll do you proud."

The suit was wonderful, but sometimes Nigel wondered if Doug was really the gift that Andy had intended for him. "I know you will," he'd smiled and meant it.

Doug was the one who opened the door, and managed without hesitation to speak as he had been carefully trained. "Miranda. Welcome. Please come in. Nigel will be with us shortly," he said with a pleasant demeanor and mild extravagance.

"You are?"

"Nigel's. My name is Doug," he said with a warm twinkle in his eye, then hesitated and thought perhaps keeping the intimidating woman informed might be a prudent choice. Before he could extend the thought and add that he knew Andy, however, another person arrived at the door. So, Doug smiled and asked the editor, "If I might take your coat?"

After that, Miranda wafted into Nigel's abode as if she owned the place, regal and distant in bearing, and marvelously herself. Doug could have swooned. Instead, however, he put away the coat, let the others in and was glad to be the doorman for a bit.

==TDWP==

The party was just starting to feel cozy when Nigel finally made an appearance. It wasn't often that he could stage an entrance, or had reason to. However, his birthday, his show. He brought the champagne and had Doug pop the cork. It was so wonderfully symbolic.

When he had a chance, he approached Miranda, smiling. "I'm glad you came," he said with a warm hug and a kiss to her cheek, which he normally never would have attempted. "Thank you."

Miranda's expression was pleasant, even appreciative. "Aren't you well turned out today," she said, with admiration. She motioned a circle with her hand, smiling softly when Nigel obeyed and grinned. "Valentino? Though the collar..."

He grinned more. "No."

"Hmm." Miranda's eyes took in the rich colors, the sensual textures, the cut and the form. She knew everyone. She knew she had not seen this suit before or the accessories. Was it possible that Nigel had received items that had not been presented yet? Well. Considering. Yes. But it did leave her mystified. It had been a long time since a fashion masterpiece had stumped her so thoroughly. "I do know the designer...?"

"You should. You've been looking at her works for months now."

Her works?

Miranda's mind went down a quick list of likely prospects, none of which matched the sleek line of that suit, with its sly hint of out-of-states origin and a tweak at the futurists. It was as if the suit had been tailor made just for Nigel, by someone who knew him well...

The editor then experienced something she rarely ever had at this point in her life and career. She had a lightbulb-esque moment of revelation, but hid it with a smile. "Ah. I see." Then she added, "You look exquisite." That was a genuine assessment.

"I know." Nigel preened, rightly so, yet carefully, wisely kept his amusement out of his eyes and expression.

==TDWP==

An hour later, Miranda's heels clacked the floors of the nearly empty Elias-Clarke building. No one was there to compete for the elevator and then realize who she was in a panic, nor was anyone stationed at the assistants' desks. This late night, impromptu, visit made it much easier for the editor. Especially once she sat at her desk and paused with her hand above the miscellaneous drawer.

Miranda was not a stupid woman. Nigel's hint had been enough for all the pieces to slam together forcefully. She'd simply had not let the fact that the information had taken her aback show. Now, she realized there was much in the way of catching up to do and the thought filled her with trepidation.

Firming her resolve, the editor laid her hand on the drawer and tugged it open. She plucked a random thumb-drive and then thought better of it. She intuited that if she wanted to understand what led Nigel to that suit, she would have to start from the beginning.

She pulled all of the files and all of the drives, and committed herself to a late evening of "research."

Hours later, Miranda Priestly felt like the acolyte bestowed with a new mantle. She was no longer ignorant. She was gobsmacked, astounded, enlightened.

Her office had become the temple, her desk the altar.

Images, sample fabrics, small stones, and books worth of notes, were painstakingly spread and arranged, on floor, wall, counters, desk. The color laser printer had worked overtime, producing pristine copies of images and text she wished firmly she'd seen and read months and months ago.

She could remember a handful of times when she'd felt like this, where awe and wonder dismantled the facade in an instant and kept it away. The birth of her children had been such a moment, when the whole world changed and her priorities aligned like the stars on mystical days. The day she became editor-in-chief, was also such an experience, when responsibility settled on her as solidly as a crown and she'd understood that a kingdom came with a price and that she would pay it gladly, over and over.

Now this.

And with it, epiphany after epiphany, and no place at all to hide.

==TDWP==

Miranda had managed to gather herself and put her office back to rights by the time Emily arrived the next morning. She left for some fortification before others arrived and informed the driver that she intended to return at nine a.m. Sharp. Cara had stayed with her daughters overnight with the promise of a hefty stipend and some vacation time. Thick folders were stacked carefully on a counter by a wall that still held swatches pinned to a wall, but was not noticeably unusual, as that had happened before. The assistant paid it little attention as she set about ordering the desk in habitual pattern. She did pay attention to the manila folder with a sticky on it that said, "Give to Nigel." She did so with expediency and left before the art editor could respond one way or the other.

Nigel gasped as he flipped open the file and then smiled when he found the note with a promise to return the other originals after they'd had a chance to speak about them and discuss a strategy for encouraging Andrea to come home. Of course, there was no mention of why it had taken Miranda this long to return the goods. He'd realized something was off from nearly the beginning, but considering whom he was dealing with, he knew that he had to carefully think his way through the problem.

Andy was as stubborn in her own way as Miranda was. She saw her drawings, images and writings as sketches and riffs, rather than what they were; designs that needed to be expressed out in the world and articulations of understanding that ought to be in fashion and graphic design publications for their wisdom. She was oblivious, which hardly seemed possible given how obvious it was to him. On the other hand, the fact that she shared them at all, demonstrated a great level of trust, which he was loathe in anyway to lose.

Meanwhile, Miranda, apparently, hadn't even bothered to look. Because, well, he could guess a half dozen reasons she might have said if he'd asked. But he thought it was because of Andrea, herself in a way that had a marginal relationship to the fact that she'd left the publication and the job. It was, again, a state of obliviousness that threatened Nigel's composure sometimes with how obvious it seemed to him.

He'd had to do something, that would not tip either of them in the wrong direction. And, then again, there was the more selfish motivation. He really had wanted the suit.

And now he had it. All of his birthday prayers had come had the suit, a folder of Andrea's works on their way to where they belonged, and the knowledge that Miranda had finally seen the same thing that he had. And something would be done, to bring Andrea where she belonged.

His thought was, 'Best Birthday Ever.' His only verbal comment was, "At last."

==TDWP==

"Call her. Talk to her as you would normally. Tell her about the upcoming ball. Tell her who will be there and what you think they'll be wearing. Talk shop." Miranda's tone was even. The fingertips of one hand swirled an ever spinning circle on her desk, just under a particular image. "End the conversation, but then remember this." She pushed the image toward him. "Tell her that you'd love to see it, but don't demand it. Not this time. Let her decide. It may not be the right one. We'll know when it is, because she'll nibble. She'll want to."

"I don't know, Miranda. I had to practically wrestle her for the Birthday Suit."

"Must you insist on calling it that?"

Nigel grinned. "Yes."

Miranda shook her head. "She needs to know this is her idea, but that she has your support. And, Nigel, I'll put it bluntly, I want a new gown."

The art director tugged at his collar. "Gee. You sure don't ask for much, do you?"

Miranda's smile was a shark's grin. "I learned a long time ago to ask for everything and then get it." The she shrugged, "But I also learned that there are some people, whom I respect and wish to be happy. I will make sacrifices for those very, very few. I want the gown, but I want Andrea happy more. Do you understand?"

Nigel thought of Doug and shrugged winsomely. "I guess I do."

==TDWP==

It was said that a certain mantra spoken or thought one thousand times over the course of a full wakeful period purified and empowered the person who did it. And they, in turn could purify the environment around them and perform miracles or magic or whatever one wanted to call it. Andy was well on her way to that number when her cell phone rang.

This had happened before. She no longer felt interrupted when it happened. She unfolded from the cross-legged sitting position and stood with limber grace. Yoga and Tai Chi and certain kinds of dance had smoothed out her gait, straightened her shoulders, and toned her body. She tried everything, failed a quite a few things, but succeeded too. She'd gained much more than she'd lost, over the journey.

"Hey Nige. I was just thinking of you. Did you like your suit?"

"Andy, honey, I loved it." Nigel gushed, something he didn't do often, at least at work, as it wasn't very professional, even in his industry. "Everyone who saw me hated me instantly. It was perfect."


	3. Chapter 3

TDWP: On an Altar pt. 3

Nigel blinked at the phone and then put it back to his ear. After the last conversation he'd come to the conclusion that progress was not being made, and had decided to give it up and just make sure that Miranda got another reputable artist to gown her. He didn't even bring up the topic. At the end of their latest discussion, Andy said, "Did you have someone in mind when you asked about the gown last time?"

The man was taken aback, but caught up quickly. "Well, always. But it's not anything you need to worry about. I..."

"Oh." Andy said and the way she said it made his stomach flip in disappointment. She was going to say no. He was going to have to explain and see the disappointment and get chewed and then maybe...

"I do have some measurements. I mean, if you can work with them. I remember the fitting." He actually blushed about the fitting. Not that Andy's careful assessment had anything sexual to it. It had, however, been very thorough. "So I have everything. Except a picture for you. But..."

"I don't know, Nige. It's one thing to do this for a friend..."

"You'd still be doing it for a friend. Me. Just, not in my size."

That got a chuckle from Andrea. "Well, can you give me some personality traits, something that might help me tailor the idea?"

Nigel paused long enough that she said, finally, "Or not."

"That's not it. Sorry. I'm just... I'm thinking of the best way to phrase things." He closed his eyes and said, "I'll give you three words."

"Better than none. Okay."

"Regal."

"Okay."

"Risk-taker."

"Interesting. Okay."

"Classic."

"Oh sure, make it hard. Do you know how many versions of classic there are? I could go back hundreds of years over a multitude of cultures..."

"Andy. Fine. Last 50 years classic, western influence, but that's somewhat flexible."

"Okay. Better. Any specific colors?"

"No. Well, nothing orange or magenta."

"And definitely not pumpkin and fuchsia together," Andy quipped.

"Exactly."

"Okay. I can probably work with this. Maybe. Does it have to be one of the one's we've talked about?"

"No."

"Good. I'll start fresh then."

"Now I'm worried."

"That's what you get for using 'Risk-taker' as a descriptor. Okay. Fine. Send me the measurements."

"I'll do that and one better. I can send you a dress, just make sure you send it back." He had the perfect one in mind. It was one that Miranda found and had been fitted for and liked, but that Andy had never seen. It would be perfect, giving the younger woman a better idea of the editor's dimensions, which did include a healthy bust that not all took into account. Andy would see it though and understand.

"Perfect," Andy said. "That would help a lot, especially since you don't have a picture to give me."

"Will you send me the drawings you do?"

"I'm tempted not to, just to mess with your head, but as this is for you, I suppose I ought to get your input. You do realize that I'm not a designer, right."

"Whatever you say Andy. We've had the discussion, sung the song, written the play. But, if you don't mind pretending, for me, this one time..."

"Fine. Fine. Give me a few days. Does the victim, I mean candidate, have a favorite composer?"

"Not so much a composer as eras. Baroque, Classical, Romance. Then skip ahead, the Beach Boys, Beatles, Snoop Dog."

"Snoop Dog. Are you telling me she's eclectic? That's kind of a cop out."

"No. Andy, think about it again. We have music that expresses emotion, is sometimes ornate, but always carries a theme. In terms of periods, thematically, they are almost equal given the poetry, with Classical being the odd-man out. I include it because she does like it and it covers a wide swath if you broaden it to include a territory rather than a period."

"Right. I see where you're going with this. She's okay with a little discord or strong emphasis so long as it suits the whole and expresses an idea. I can work with this. That doesn't make sense, but it will. If I can't come up with something in a couple of days we'll just scrap the whole idea. Is that okay?"

"Sure."

Then she remembered. "Skin tone. I need skin tone and hair color. Or it won't look right."

Crap. Nigel did some quick thinking. "Think pearls. Think the moon. Think stars. Winter. Summer."

"Not spring?"

"Hot and cold. Maybe a little fall."

"Hmm. Not quite what I was after, but I'll use it."

==TDWP==

Five days later, Nigel had twenty drawings on a thumb-drive. Since he'd given her such a broad spectrum, she'd obviously decided to give him an array of choices to see if something matched what he was looking 'd looked and honestly had no idea how anyone could pick just one. He'd realized as he viewed them, that he'd not given Andy a sense of age or purpose, just a sense of the formality. He also noted, that none of the dresses were drawn for women who lacked a bust or hips. The artist had taken the measurements into account.

He called Andy, "Would you consider three?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Not just one gown, but three. I can't make up my mind." He didn't know if Miranda would be able to either, though she was a woman with skill in decisiveness.

"Well, then let me help you. Only one. But, like your suit, it will be the full kit."

"Argh. Fine. I'll have to call you back."

"Nige, I'm not the one in a hurry," Andy said gently, sounding completely unruffled.

Once again Miranda was faced with a wall of choices, this time not for the magazine, but for herself. "My God."

"I know." Nigel stood beside her, arms folded, one hand gently tapping his chin. He knew the verbalization had nothing to do with horrible. She certainly hadn't just flipped through the files, which he'd seen her do for many a designer. But these, she was examining them carefully, as each gown, represented a unique viewpoint. It wasn't that there weren't some better than others. Of course, there were, that's how it worked. However, there were things to consider; current trends, personal preference, those who would see the gown and those who would see the gown via photo, the artist, how not to make it a dead give-away since some pieces seemed as if they would float off the page and right onto her with frightening ease.

"And she doesn't know that these are for me?" Miranda asked.

Nigel knew why she asked. Some of the pieces, even at a quick glance, just screamed Miranda Priestly. It was almost as if Andy had used her former boss as a mental model. "Not a clue." Nigel answered, then paused. Andy was terrifyingly intuitive about some things. "At least, I don't think so. She hasn't asked me about it, anyway."

"I see," Miranda nodded sagely. She stood back, pacing away from the wall and turning to face it again so she could take in the whole. In theory, this was a collection. As a collection, that meant certain types went well together, though she was aware that Andrea had varied the work quite effectively. However, it was also vastly apparent that the young woman favored tailoring to a person, rather than focusing on a particular style or thematic inclination. It made sense, she had been surrounded by couture, had finally understood it, yet her underlying motivation had always been that individuals were what mattered. The drawings actually demonstrated this mindset clearly, now that she was looking for the pattern. Andrea had been feeling for personality as much as seeking a design to fit. Interesting.

"Have you written her already?"

"Well, mostly, lately it's been just talking on the phone. She did send an email with these, which I thanked her for, but didn't really reply to."

"Good." Miranda exhaled and stepped forward, pulling three images from the board. She handed one to Nigel. "This is mine."

"Okay." He looked at the other two, which she held in her hand, puzzled. "I will be writing something for you to rewrite, in your own words. In it, you will beg, plead, promise to borrow, so that you can have this gown made, for Emily. You won't ask Andrea to do it. You will be asking if you can share the image with a costumer here. We will exercise great care in our selection of who."

"It won't be full kit."

"I am aware." She tilted her head. "We have the closet to draw from or Emily will just have to use her own belongings. She has myriad from which to choose."

"True." He took the drawing she extended and thought about some of the pieces that would work with it and felt silly for having forgotten, even for a second how this all worked. Blend and recreate, build glory from the heels up. "Right."

"And now the risk. If we manage to get Andrea to come back, we must get her to present herself." She handed the picture to Nigel. "It is not this dress. It is the spirit of the thing. When it comes time, I will have a dress for Andrea. I will have all she needs. You will deliver to me her measurements. Then you will be my go between with her."

"Miranda..."

"It must be done Nigel. If we don't do it this way, I'll have to go haring after her on my own. And right now I don't think she'd talk to me. Do you? After all, she firmly believes I am not talking to her; a correct assumption." She pointed to the wall. "This is our conversation. This is a language we can speak to each other."

"But she doesn't know it's you."

"It doesn't matter. I am not worried about how she dresses me," she waved at the board. "The point is to get Andy to see who she is, what she is and where she belongs." She could not let such natural, informed, but untainted talent be lost. Andrea needed nurturing, obviously, to get her to see the field that she belonged in, but also to insure proper growth and display. "Get permission for Emily. Then we will focus on the next part."

"Next part?"

"Getting Andrea here on time."

==TDWP==

It wasn't that she gave permission easily, in fact, in some ways it was much harder. It took control out of her hands and put it in Nigel's; who was a master at what he did. And even knowing that, it was difficult, because she had visions now about how things harmonized and fit and they were often very specific. But...

She owed Emily.

Nigel did not say that, nor imply it. No, his arguments had been more esoteric and held ties to previous discussions artful and mystical. He just asked. Then begged and she'd already decided by the time she came to the part where he pleaded.

Well. At least he'd managed to narrow it down to two.

However, some minor alterations would have to be made to make it perfect for her former co-worker. That was one personality she knew very, very well. Like Nigel's. Like... She quickly cut off that line of thought even as it began to form.

She wrote a one word reply first, to get that out of the way, and then a much longer-winded one, that related to the rest of the discussion, next.

==TDWP==

Andy wasn't sure why she was back. She hadn't planned on being. But as she debarked from the plane, she realized she was kind of glad. She was glad that New York, even with as little time as she'd spent in it lately, still felt like home. She went through customs, security and then smiled when she saw a sign, held by Nigel. It was her mock up of a label, which she'd used in his outfit just to tease, blown up in size and planted on a board.

She grinned and laughed and waved at her friend, and then, walked toward him in a strolling gate. She'd gone simple for traveling, wearing shoes that could be easily slipped out of and into, which called for casual-wear. So she wore jeans and a shirt, but she sparked it up with jewelry and a wide belt that complimented the blouse.

Nigel, attuned to details, had grasped the sleeve, just to feel the texture. "Where are you getting these colors?"

"Trade secret." Then she bumped shoulders, "I mix to get specific blends. Sometimes it works. Sometimes... well, I have dozens of tie-dyes if you want them."

"No. Thank you."

She laughed. Then she gripped him in a hug. "Seriously, Nigel, how are you?"

"Put upon, but very glad to see you. Did you bring..."

"I had them delivered. Safer than having them get lost on the way, I thought. They should arrive sometime tonight."

"Excellent." He counted days in his head, and was grateful they had a few before he had to go into dire mode. "In that case, let's get you home, Six. Doug did a little shopping so you should have groceries."

"And how is our Dougie?"

"Very handsome these days." Nigel grinned like the fox who ate the chicken.

==TDWP==

It occurred to Andy, that over time, her home had filled, slowly, with pieces of her life. She'd shipped things home and would put them up when she stopped by. Now, as she looked at the painting over her couch and then turned and scanned the space, she realized that it had gone from empty to lived in or at least, wanted.

She walked to her altar, the tall one, spoke to it as if it were a friend, which is what it had become. "Well, haven't you made a difference?" She patted the surface with affection and smiled softly. Maybe couple-dom wasn't in the cards for her. Maybe it never was or Nate was as good as it was going to get. She couldn't settle for the young man and be true to herself. And now, she wasn't so bad off alone. She felt good about the direction of her life and mostly content. "Thanks Aunt Dorene," she whispered.

==TDWP==

The packages were delivered to Nigel's residence and he arrived from work just on time to receive them. The youthful, handsome delivery man smiled and charmed and accepted a tip, which Nigel gave him just for being beautiful. Doug was the one who handed him the money.

"Do we get to peek?" The accountant asked, not quite at the begging stage yet. That would come later.

That thought made Nigel squeak a little and Doug patted his butt affectionately, since he knew what that sound meant. The fashion editor offered a smile and said, "We have to. We have to make sure it's all arrived in one piece, unharmed and hopefully without wrinkle." He pointed, "Too the cave!" It was their joke phrase for his office. Currently he had Emily's gown and a few selected items to go with it hidden there.

As it was, by the time they undid the packaging and displayed the items therein, they both ended up staring at the finished piece. Doug said, reverently, "There was a time when I despaired regarding Andy's sense of style. And then she bloomed and I thought how wonderful that was. But this. Nigel!"

Nigel nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

==TDWP==

Miranda's absolute silence scared him, but when he cast a glance in her direction, fearing the worst, Nigel was taken aback.

He remembered once explaining the intricacies of the editor's assessment of collections and single design content to Andy. He mentioned that a nod was good was positive sign, that pursed lips were the end of the world, and that he'd only ever seen Miranda smile at a designer once. Only once.

Miranda was not smiling, but her expression was beatific, transcendent and still. It reminded him of Bernini's Ludovica Albertoni or Ecstasy of St. Theresa, except that the editor's mouth was closed and her eyes were open. He had just once seen her eyes that bright with after-the-rain blue and that was at the birth of her children.

The silver-haired woman's physical pause did not last long. She reached to touch the garment with very careful fingers. Only then did she make a sound, one of pleasure that sparked a roll of heat at the base of his spine and a flush to round his ears. Then she looked at the items arranged beside the gown on a table, lifting the heels with equal gentleness, marking the quality. She spoke, her usual soft voice made lush with respect "She must have people. No. I know she has them, though perhaps by the hourly hire. Yet, they know her now. Know her way of working and thinking and are willing to work with her. They would know her genius. Respect it enough to make this quality. Ask. Find out. She will need them. We will need to bring them to her, when it is time."

She touched the boxes holding jewelry and opened one. She let out an exhale of delight. "Stars in their heaven. My, how they sparkle." She cast a glance at her friend. "She does justice to her vision."

"And pays the price," he said, knowing the stones. "Those are not fake."

"Not for her Night, no. It wouldn't be worthy."

"Miranda..." He was going to caution her again, but stopped. They had already discussed it. She was speaking metaphorically, not of herself. She had to be.

The editor slipped into a tangent, found her stride again. She was a woman of quick recovery, which left frustrated enemies and lovers and employees in her wake. "Her dress is ready, but I am waiting on the accessories. I've asked them to be delivered to you. Your invitation should have arrived by now..."

"It has. I take it I'll be inviting Andy to come along with Doug and I. I can't guarantee she'll go for it."

Her expression was gentle as she turned back to the dress. "All you can do is try, Nigel."

He blinked.

==TDWP==

Emily was not a chatterbox, but she held strong opinions and voiced them with remarkable, scathing ease. In some ways, approaching the redhead with an unknown label for an event that was bound to be filled with persons wearing their most impressive formals was utterly terrifying. He trusted Miranda's choice, but Nigel had no idea how Emily would react, though he had been as careful as he could be to insure that it would be a beautiful fit. Just to be on the safe side, however, he made sure to mention that Miranda had seen it, and approved.

Emily was very daring in her office and casual wear, but she was surprisingly cautious with the formal wear, often choosing classic lines which hugged her figure. This dress would hug and flow and reveal. The color would cause her skin and hair to glow. She would be an illumination, bringing both light and heat. Men and women would envy and lust. Serena would demand to be able to take it off of her Emily immediately. Nigel made his other co-worker swear on pain of Miranda not to rip it in the attempt, or for that matter, at all.

Then he pointedly said, "You will be responsible for selecting the accessories that most highlight this dress on you. Do a good job, because Miranda requires it." Then, before he compromised anything, he left. Emily, probably with Serena's help, would have to figure it out from there.

==TDWP==

"Andy," Nigel began, and hesitated. He glanced at Doug who smiled in encouragement. They were dining out at one of the newer fine restaurants. "Doug and I were wondering if you might consider attending an extravaganza with us? I have an extra invitation and you might catch a dance or two," he peered over his glasses at Andy and kept sawing at his food as if he hadn't already managed to part it. "I think you would find it interesting, if not enjoyable." He exhaled and finally quit torturing his plate once his question was out.

"I don't really do events," Andy said quietly. "I mean..." She paused and looked at her friends. Doug gave her a half smile and Nigel was shrugging as if it were her decision. "On the other hand," she stirred her fork in the pasta, "Thank you for the invitation."

Nigel's expression lightened up. "You'll go?"

"And embarrass you! Any gown I have is years out of season."

Nigel tisked, "As if I'd let you get away with that. No. You'll have something gorgeous to wear. I promise."

"Oh! Well. Nige, I don't think …"

"Trust me," he said emphatically. "This is something I know how to do."'

"Point!" Andy said and she relaxed again in her chair. "Speaking of knowing how to do. Doug, I've been thinking about the housing market. I think I'm not interested. I'd rather keep focusing on technology and medicine and ecology friendly stuff. I mean, keep the steady growers, but..."

"It's okay. Everyone has their preference. I'll get you out painlessly."

"You continue to rock, my friend."

He preened and lifted his cup in a cheers motion and grinned. "Of course I do."

==TDWP==

Andy sat, legs folded under, before the smaller altar in her bedroom. The beads rolled through her fingers rhythmically, timed to the meditative phrase she hummed. She breathed in perfect rhythm, let herself feel the rise and fall of her breath, the sense of energy around her. Sometimes, when she meditated, it felt like she managed to step out of herself or her circumstances for just long enough. It was, she found, a very restful practice.

She finished, uninterrupted, and let herself spend a few moments in a quiet state. In a little bit, the dress from Nigel would arrive. She was already questioning the reasons she'd said yes. Before the meditation, facing her motivations had been difficult. Now, they still stretched, but she understood that it was alright for her to have them, at least.

She unfolded and stood, and walked out of her bedroom, into the front room. She approached the tall altar and passed it to go to her old bookcase instead. She pulled a largish book. It's red cover was faded, but the gold that lined the title was still bright. She loved the texture of the cover, and ran her fingertips over it. Then, she opened the book to a well-worn space.

The editor-in-chief of Runway had a zillion photos taken of her. Her face was plastered on Page Six, TV, magazines, some style handbooks and even Runway itself. Beautiful shots existed of her. Some more posed than others. Andy could appreciate all of them, in some ways, but the image that she gently withdrew from its hiding place in the book, was her favorite.

It was a combination of many things, she supposed, but mostly the expression on the lovely face; one that was rare and not seen by many and, actually, she had never seen it personally. The picture had been taken long before her arrival at Runway. She supposed the woman's daughters had seen it outside of a picture. She hoped so, because the serenity Andy perceived was beautiful and evocative.

The edges of the image had become a little worn, but it was unbent and strong, like the person whose face graced it.

Andy went to the altar and propped the book against the wall, and the image against the book. Then, as ordered by her therapist around the same time she started saying "That place," she began to practice a phrase. It was just as bad as always. "Hello M..mm. ..." She exhaled, and knew that a fruitless pursuit was not going to result in change. And it wasn't like she'd ever meet the woman again, at least never close enough to have to say it anyway.

The loss she felt from that thought, still stung in ridiculously sharp ways and she wondered why it did not fade. She'd been told time would assist with that. So far... no. No, it hadn't.

She still stung with loss and need and it affected everything she did, thought, wanted. It was a form of craziness, but one she had come to accept was simply her lot. Now she folded the awareness in, and let it color her life, her work, her speech patterns, her dreams. Well, actually, she could not control her dreams. They just went places that she could not hide, with regular frequency. Thanks dreams.

She breathed in, felt the mantra from her earlier meditation, and touched the picture gently. The likelihood of Nigel inviting her into the same event as the editor was maybe one percent of nothing. She'd have more chance randomly meeting her in the streets. So, nothing to worry about, other than meeting strangers and she had gotten good at that. One thing about this journey, out of many; she'd come to appreciate where her ex-employer had come from in some fundamental ways. And it had opened up paths of understanding that had not been there before. For that, she would always be glad.

Andy let her hand drop back to her side. Maybe it was just time to change the attempt. Maybe it was time to face that what she wanted to say was much different than what she could say. Maybe, all she really needed to do was simplify and just say nothing at all.

The doorbell rang and she reached, out of habit, to snatch the image and hide it in her book. The bell rang again, at an insistent pace. She turned, distracted, just as the third ring went off and the image was left standing in place.

==TDWP==

It was not just a dress or a gown. It was a classic, a masterpiece, and with it, was everything, shoes, undergarments, accessories. She smiled despite herself, as she lifted the gown, lined with gold, out of its bag with careful hands. It was like carrying sunshine and took her breath away. For more moments than she could probably say, she was taken away from her worries and woes and transported.

When she recalled herself, she was reminded that this also was part of what she had come to love and appreciate. She knew the designer, understood the inspiration, could see the future in it. She wanted to grab her markers, but instead she prepped and examined everything, letting her soul get caught in the fine web of beauty that had been created.

She wanted to call Nigel and thank him, but he'd already told her not to. He wouldn't have time, he'd said; which she could appreciate. So, instead, she got ready, taking advantage of the time to really do it right. The dress deserved it.

Hours and hours later, she was ready and amazed. It was as if the dress had been made for her, though she knew it had not been; it had merely been , it fit her perfectly, lifted where it ought and flowed where it ought and revealed, maybe a little more than she usually did. It was definitely a more daring gown than she normally picked. She would stand out, but now, she did not care. It was the right kind of standing out.

She felt beautiful.

She felt known and understood.

And if she were a little surprised at Nigel's picks, well... she could tell him how brilliant he was later.


	4. Chapter 4

TDWP: On an Altar pt. 4

Andy should have realized it would be something big when the limo arrived. One would think she'd get used to Runway-think; something which Nigel could not help, since he was heart-deep into it. And she supposed the warning was in the phrasing of the request. But sometimes, with Nigel, an extravaganza was something a little more low-key than what she was looking at now.

Then again, the dress and the heels and the jewels, which seemed to just add more glow, were a clue.

"Ready?" Nigel asked. He and Doug were in the limo too. When they'd picked her up, both men had been in a kind of shocked complimentary state. It had been as if they had not really seen the dress, which, of course, was impossible. Andy found their reactions peculiar. She had been very flattered, however, and so had let that puzzlement go in favor of one truth. They all looked very, very good.

Which meant, that despite her discomfort with the gauntlet ahead, she would walk it proudly. Not that they were taking the red carpet, thank all. The chauffeur opened the door toward the building and Doug was the first to step out. He reached in and Andy put her hand in his. His steadiness helped her exit to be graceful. Nigel, who was smiling as if tension had never been a part of his life, stepped out next. Doug looped her arm through his, and they three ascended the steps, on the side away from the crowd.

Even then a few flashes branded their eyes. A photographer's job was to notice the beautiful and some paid attention to all fields of view. Still, Andy was supremely grateful to arrive indoors, where the pace softened, the cameras abated, and the crowd milled through double doors towards a ballroom. The orchestra could be heard clearly.

A warm night, meant no wrap necessary and no wait at a coat room. Doug and Nigel led her in, seeing what she did not, which was the way heads turned as she passed by. They shared a look and nodded slightly. Doug handed Andy off to Nigel, "I'm getting us some libations. Nigel, will you stake a claim somewhere?"

"I have a site in mind, a table for us, so yes."

"Then I shall meet you there." Unabashedly, the young man leaned and kissed his lover on the cheek and then sauntered away.

"Nige," Andy said, "I think you bring out the best in him. And maybe a little beast."

Her friend grinned and tilted his head. "I know. It's glorious. I don't know how you kept him hidden from me for so long."

"Timing is everything."

"Tell me about it. Speaking of, come along, my dear."

It was a very good table; close enough to see the action and get to the dance floor, far enough to allow for conversation. Andy noted that they could see the double staircase, which led upstairs to various waiting rooms and facilities for guests, well enough to make out faces and the details of formals. "Very strategic," she complimented.

Nigel did not mention that he'd made arrangements far in advance. He just nodded graciously and tried not to appear nervous as he glanced around. He wondered, sincerely and not for the first time, if he should warn Andy, but Miranda had forbidden it. So, he did his best to behave naturally. Then his eye caught one poor victim of fashion and instinct took over. "Oh. That poor woman." He pointed without actually doing so and Andy turned her head.

She shook her head, but instead of wincing as he expected, she looked contemplative. "The gown just needs a few tweaks and it would be alright. For her I'd lose the faux bustle. She doesn't need it. She could carry a russet, if she went darker...," she began. He then listened as she verbally took the dress apart and put it back together again, with the woman in mind. By the time she was done, he had gone from preparation to snipe, which inevitably led to a kind of character assassination, to one of contemplation.

Doug finally found his way toward them, carrying the promised drinks. He handed them around and then leaned in and whispered in Nigel's ear.

Andy, by that time, glancing around the ballroom and just enjoying the ebb and flow of beautiful people. Her hand covered her drink, palm over cup. She wasn't quite ready to lift her glass. In her head she was naming those she knew and framing questions about those she did not to ask Nigel. She looked toward the the entry way, feeling curious about who was arriving.

Then she felt as if her breath had been shifted a foot away from herself. She managed a squeak of, "Nigel." Then a gasp of, "Oh wow."

"What?" He looked and then he said, "That is..." He paused as he took in the sight and felt a warmth of pride. "Well done, Emily."

Andy watched as people parted away from the red head, who strolled with a near sexual confidence, in their direction. "You didn't say she'd be here. You didn't say..." Emily's hand was on Serena's arm. The Brazillian was casting glances at her lover, as if she wanted to eat her up and was barely holding back. She wasn't the only one.

Nigel had a thought, gripped Andy's arm. "She doesn't know," he said with caution.

"I... I... You know, I never saw you in your suit. You said you liked it, but...did it look as good?" The question was posed with an unfeigned tremulousness, a hope for the best, but not an expectation of it.

Doug said with a sweet evenness, "Yes. Yes it did."

Andy blinked at him and then, as the two women approached the table, stood. She flashed back on the time she told Emily she looked thin and how pleased the young woman had been. Now though, thin had nothing to do with it. She looked tiger sleek, yes, but also extravagantly womanly and extraordinary. And this was the dress, her dress, that Andy had drawn and planned and entrusted into Nigel's care.

She felt a moment of wall-closing-in panic and self-critique, and then suddenly the women were at the table. "You two..." she said. And words flailed about in her head, until she forced one out. "Beautiful."

Serena saved the moment. She grinned widely, and grasped Andy by her shoulders, bringing her in for featherlight kisses on the cheek. "Andy! It is so good to see you. You look wonderful. Radiant. When did you get back?"

"I think that may be true of you and Emily. Not long ago."

Serena backed away and her gaze raked along her lover's form. "She is a confection tonight."

Emily's expression, which had been smokey, firmed. "You don't text or call. I'd wonder if you were my friend at all. Except for the jacket you sent last month. Which, for once, was the right size."

"Well, I figured I'd eventually get it right."

Nigel leaned in, later, when Emily and Serena had wandered to an elsewhere. "Jacket?"

"I was in Milan and saw it. Looked like her."

"Ah. Not one of yours then?"

"No. I just took advantage of the measurements you sent me to get the right size," Andy said slowly, wondering why he asked and then smiling gently. It was the old game. "Not a designer." Then, as she lifted her drink, she said, "Though what you managed to do with my drawing is amazing. She looks great. Good job, Nigel."

"I despair of you. You do recall you gave me very direct specifications, correct? Blueprint and patterns. I followed your directions."

"Lucky that you like me then." She waved her hand dismissively, "It needed updating from the drawing, once you told me it was for Emily. That was just common sense. And the patterns, that's just home economics. Three required semesters in high school and my mother's quilting team. Remind me to show you the picture of Mr. Monkey. You'd get a good laugh."

"There is none so blind as the one that will not see," Nigel quoted under his breath as he shook his head. Then he smiled as he caught sight of the two women circulating. People of both genders were either flocking toward them or gawking in admiration. Emily, whose brazenness once made up for shyness, was long past that now. She worked that dress and drew in the unsuspecting like bees to honey. Serena's attitude was that of someone who knew what she was going home to and she basked in the light of her lover with smiles of affection and desire, which seemed to only spark the young woman further. They kept it up, the ballroom would probably burst into flames. "Mr. Monkey?"

"My first quilt. It's probably hidden safely away in my mom's quilt closet somewhere. She refuses to inflict it on strangers. Yet she's weirdly proud enough of it to keep for me."

"Andy, feel up to a dance?" Doug interjected quickly, wanting her off that subject. He had seen the quilt in question, and her mother was right. The young woman glanced at the art editor, who waved them both on.

"I'd love to."

The dance floor was still quite roomy. Doug led Andy in with practiced ease, twirling her into position. They had danced before, in early days, after taking a ballroom dancing course together, and always found an easy partnering in the steps. It was usually a pleasing experience, and this evening was no exception.

Andy let him lead, though depending on their location they had been known to switch it up. They were equally facile in both positions, with the brunette being the admittedly more flexible of the two, especially when it came to relationships.

"Take the praise, Andy."

"What?"

"Quit arguing with him," he smiled to take the sting out. "He's the professional, remember?"

"Oh, I know. But this is just a game between us. He doesn't mean it seriously."

"Hmm. Let's go take a look at that dress again, shall we?" Doug whirled them around the floor, one-two-three-four, until they were on the outer edge and closer where Serena and Emily were chatting and schmoozing.

He timed the turns just long enough that Andy had to see, had to bend with him and smile at her friends, before he waltzed them away again, to give her a little distance and time to think. He said, "Do you remember when you decided you were going into journalism?"

"Not specifically, no. I remember working on the school newspapers and finding it invigorating, fun."

"I remember," Doug said. "I remember it very clearly. I'll just say a name. Rachel Jameson."

"That bitch." The words snapped out like a reflex, just like saying 'that place,' instead of 'Fucking France', which she had practiced and practiced until it was true and she wondered if she'd ever just be able to call the country by its proper name again. At least she could still say Paris. The irony was not lost on her.

Andy never called anyone a bitch, not even Miranda on her worst day. No one had earned it, except for Rachel, shatterer of dreams and first loves.

"One of these days you might forgive her. It's not like Karma didn't kick her butt. However, my friend, I do not bring it up to speak of her. Though I do think one of these days you should talk about her, with someone. I know she broke your heart..."

"I don't want to talk about it, Doug. It was not a big deal." Only, it kind of had been. A whole semester's work gone, destroyed or taken. Rachel had left her nothing and the final project, upon which the bulk of the grade had rested was not anything that could have been redone or recouped. Rachel, someone she'd loved and trusted and 'given her all' to, had used it as her own.

When Andy tried to explain what happened, the instructor called her lazy and all but implied that she was trying to cheat. They'd done this after bringing in Rachel, "for fairness' sake," and the other young woman had stood there and looked angelic and sad all at once during the dressing down. It had been one of the most horrifically embarrassing experiences of Andy's life. The only way to save herself had been to drop the class and get the heck out of the dorm room, which she'd shared with the other girl. She moved in with Lily, even though by campus rules she was too young. Her parents had to sign a consent form. Again, embarrassing and horrible. She had to explain it all to them.

They, at least, had believed her and had, when she'd essentially come out to them, supported her. It was a surprisingly gentle saving grace.

Ironically, later, the experience had steeled her for Miranda's caustic personal assessments. She'd been through worse. At least Miranda never called her a liar. Andy could handle the insults regarding her weight, and even her intelligence, but would have drawn the line at having her integrity could even face the fact her leaving of Runway was perhaps not the most professional moment of her life. But it was an honest one.

Doug, aware that Andy's mood might be spiraling in the wrong direction, went for a save. But it did not change that it all had to be said. "Well, you did take up with Nate and, for awhile, he was good for you. So there is that, but I remember how it was before Nate." He went quiet, letting her stew in denial a little longer, then said, "You are one of those people who have multiple tracks of genius, but I have noticed that you find it challenging, when one track gets a shaken really hard, to pick it up again. It's why, when you went to work for the Mirror, I was so very proud. You hadn't let your issues with Runway stop you. But, Andy, I say this as your friend, your very best. You are letting Rachel get in the way of seeing something very cool. And it's been years. Years, Andy. Time to let it go. Sometimes romance goes bad and people do things they ought not when it happens. Chalk it up to that."

"Yeah, well, she's the one who got the passing grade. I had to dump the course and it got wiped from my records." She'd been shooting for a double major in graphic art and communication studies, thinking the two would work together, maybe with photography as the emphasis. She never got to color theory or past drawing two. She ended up switching to English and communication studies with a minor in criminology.

"Well," he paused and the dance was starting to slow to a halt, "At least you didn't let it drive you to become a lawyer, so not all was lost. Journalism is at least creative."

"I think I'm done dancing for now."

==TDWP==

Nigel left almost as immediately as they returned, saying he needed a refill and to network. He promised to come back. Andy had been a little worried that Doug would return to the topic, but instead they talked of other less painful things and she realized he had said all he was going to. It didn't change that certain things were now in the back of her mind. She merely chose not to focus on them, preferring to be in the moment, which was a skill she'd attained on her travels. Her mind would work it or not at a more opportune moment, though it might take years. After all, the "great aha," of the Jame's Holt collection had all happened behind the scenes.

Gradually, her smile returned. She was about to wonder out loud where Nigel was at, when there was a shift in the atmosphere, a palpable change. The level of noise dropped by several degrees, though at an event like this, there were always talkers. The orchestra continued to play and dancers continued to dance.

Andy looked around, feeling curious and she saw that gazes had been drawn in a particular direction. She followed the line, and looked up and up the stairwell, trying to track what was going on.

It was probably good she'd not had a drink in her hand or mouth. As it was, she felt scooped up into a well of heat that blurred everything around her peripheral vision. Her breath held, stopped, caught and expelled in a burst of non-lingual appreciation. Her whole body trembled, but she did not feel it. Her hands had taken up the tablecloth in a death grip. She vaguely heard Doug asking a question. The actual words did not register. Not even her name.

Panic tried to edge in, but was beaten back by sheer, immediate pulsating awareness.

A memory arose and laid a filter over the vision, another time when Miranda Priestly descended stairs. She had been agog with admiration then, an employee seeing the editor-in-chief in gown and event regalia for the first time. She remembered thinking how beautiful and elegant and perfectly coiffed and all those words that described something that caught the attention of everyone.

But this vision was glory and fundamental and beyond what mere words could contain, and for heartbeats and more heartbeats Andy felt as if she were lifted on another plane and the scales had fallen off her eyes. She was struck in the heart, as if by a lance of light and could only respond by standing, unconscious of the fact she'd done so.

The woman sparkled, blazed and looked heavenly, flawless. Her silver-white hair shone as a halo. She was goddess moon in couture, midnight sky and dazzling stars. Miranda continued to descend. Her expression alert and powerful. She glanced out at the dance floor, and Andy could see her taking it in.

Then she realized Miranda's attention was pivoting, enlarging its scope, and how she knew this she could not have said; except that she was so attuned to the moment, so definitely in the now, that the way the other woman moved was etched in her memory and interpreted at a speed she barely could keep up with. She didn't even have time to think of or wish for timely vanishment.

Inevitably, because, of course, it had to be that way, the woman who called to her very bones and who thought Andy a nonfulfillment of her efforts, found her and looked. Miranda's gaze held long enough that Andy knew it was more than a mere observation, and because of distance, there was no necessity to scope things up and down, no need to reveal anything at all. Which, was a habit that Miranda had when she wanted.

At the same time, Andy was all admiration, until her mind registered what she was actually seeing, past the vision of Miranda just being what she always was and doing what she always did, while being profoundly, beautifully her. She saw the gown and the adornments. Andy knew all of it, like her own skin.

How did Miranda...? When did she...? Andy could not even begin to figure it out; the ability to think past the inarticulate, half-formed questions simply did not exist that moment. She only had the deep awareness that not only did it have to be a mistake, it was an error of immense proportions; the kind that destroyed worlds. The "oh no," formed in her heart as an icicle of fear, which caused her to taste copper. To top it off, Andy then remembered that she was being seen, had been discovered in a territory reserved for Miranda, which now made her a trespasser.

The brunette's heart started to pound and her skin flushed. A sound finally emanated; a peep of alarm that did not even begin to hint at the terror that rolled through her frame and shook her like a fist shaking a doll.

She tried to drag her eyes away, tried to look for Nigel. Tried to move; ordered herself to move, to do something, but she was already trembling and that was apparently all her body would allow, while under that powerful, potent gaze. Miranda looked and assessed. And then she looked away.

And only then, did Andy's knees finally unlock, finally allow her to sit again with a rapid and startling solidity.

It was weird how a false calmness could settle over panic and despair, odd really. Andy turned to Doug. He had apparently still been talking, but that had stopped some when. Or at least she thought he had. She still wasn't hearing anything. She laid her hand on his bigger, flatter one. "You need to warn Nigel," she said very carefully. "You need to tell him that … that... The gown, Doug. She's wearing... oh... all of it. All of it. And..." Her expression changed beatifically for the briefest of moments as she contemplated the memory, "... it's absolute heaven on her, but... Doug, she got a hold of it somehow... It's not... she will not be happy when she finds out... You need to tell Nigel..."

"Andy. Andy you have to breathe." Douglas was saying at the same time. He gripped her hand in his, desperately trying to ground her. He could see the meltdown coming like a freight train and wondered where the hell his lover was, because he was supposed to be here to explain, to calm Andy down in a way that only he could.

Andy looked at him as if he were an alien in Doug clothing. Then, as carefully as before, managed, "I have to go now. I should not be here when she's here. It's a rule." An unspoken one, but true. One Andy had known since Paris. She had waved to Miranda only once and that was with a safe distance between them and an acknowledgment owed, because she was a great disappointment, but Miranda let her be hired.

"Andy, you're supposed to be here," Doug tried reasonably. "You have an invitation."

She shook her head in denial and the movement made her feel dizzy. "It's... not that easy," she finally managed. Precious seconds were passing and Miranda would reach the end of the stairs and then Andy would have to go the long way around, which was maybe for the best. Only now her legs were not working right.

"Have some water," Doug said and he let go of her hand, a risky choice, and grabbed the pitcher of water that had been at the center of the table. He poured a glass and handed it to her. Then he said, gently, hoping his words would at least get through this time, "It's going to be okay. I promise."

She managed a piping laugh, one that was not very loud, but held a wealth of disagreement. "Some things you shouldn't promise, Doug." She took the glass he handed her and looked at it and with nothing better to do, since her body was being otherwise difficult, she took a sip. And then another.

She let go a shuddering breath and realized she'd lost track of where Miranda was, and she'd been trying to pay attention, because she knew she needed an exit strategy. She set her glass down, put on her most reasonable face, and offered a smile that was maybe a little bent at the edges. "I'm going to go now, because I must. Please tell Nigel I had a lovely time and Emily and Serena it was great to see them. Also, I'd like to speak to Nigel tomorrow, if possible. If he's still alive at the end of this." Because Miranda would find out. She always found out. And then the world would end. "I'd like to know that he is." Tears sparkled at the edge of her eyes.

Doug knew he needed help, needed to do something. He grabbed both her hands and stood up, pulling the young woman with him. He glanced down at the table and decided if they lost it, they lost it. He picked up Andy's pocket book and handed it to her. "Time for another dance," he said with a bright smile.

"Doug."

"Just one more before you go."

"Okay," she said, because it did seem that at least with him she'd keep moving. After all, how likely was it that Miranda would come after her in the dance floor. Actually, it was a brilliant idea. She nodded more firmly, her smile became slightly more natural. "Sure. I'd love to."

==TDWP==

When it came to events, the editor-in-chief did enjoy a really good entrance. It was a great way to set the standard, evaluate the mood and it did, often, stroke the ego. One just had to remember not to get too carried away and to time it well. Miranda always timed hers well; just a little after everyone else arrived and a little before middle spiral of network and "party," when the drinking began in earnest.

She knew she had their attention as soon as she stepped on the landing, heard the way the volume dropped and felt the ever-familiar experience of eyes-on-her. She let the descent match her mood, made it slightly languorous and sensual, while at the same time regal. She was a queen overlooking kingdom for just a few minutes.

Well, always, but an entrance was always its own special zone.

She did like to look out, to read what people were thinking and wearing, to follow the body language and spy out the networks of individuals who had no idea how they stood out to her.

In this case, she was looking for a few particular things.

She spotted Emily immediately, had let a smile of approval grace her expression for a few seconds, and then moved her attention again. She scanned the dance floor. It had been awhile since she'd had a good whirl. She made yet another mental note to find someone to date, someone who could dance would be nice. Pickiness, she supposed was what kept her from hurrying this time around; otherwise, she could not quite figure out what kept her stalled on that front. Normally she was quite aggressive in romantic pursuits once a respectful time had passed after a marriage's demise.

Her attention lifted and she glanced around again, thinking perhaps Nigel had been unable to do his part; fearing it on some level. It was so important that they succeed, given some of the risk, but she'd have done it twice over for this particular gown and its companion pieces. Delightful did not even begin to describe how it felt on her.

Then, there she was; Andrea, standing tall and beautiful, radiant. Resplendent. Miranda felt her heartbeat kick up, felt a rush of something pulse through her. Her breath expelled in a surprised, mild, "Oh." Her mind blanked and then filled, with only the sight of her Andrea, who was dressed as daylight, gold on gold, and as ever, shaped in a healthy woman's curve and line, and appearing so very polished. Her brunette hair was up, but not austere. Her skin perfect. Her coffee brown eyes wide and bright. Her lips as delicious and tempting as the apple. Andrea's expression was filled with a light that was breathtaking, heartbreaking.

Miranda suddenly understood something about herself, the niggling piece that had bothered her for the last few years; an awareness which had been awakened recently for no particular reason she could fathom. Now, it revealed itself to her again, like a burst of light. This time, however, the reveal held the why and the who.

And then she felt a devastating burst of concern as she observed the young woman's expression change and alter from exquisite affirmation to a different kind of awareness; one which mere months ago might have given the editor not-so-secret glee and perhaps even a thrill of power. And, she had to admit, it maybe still did, but such a look toward her was not what she wanted from or for her Andrea for any meaningfully extended length of time. Miranda experienced a deepening sense of impending calamity, wondered briefly where her key henchmen was, and discarded that detail as unnecessary query and she turned away, because she had to. She had to focus.

Miranda hurried without seeming to. Just as she had learned, over her lifetime, to control her own body language and made it a tool for her use, she had also learned to understand and read the body language of others. Even at a distance, she recognized that Andrea was well past the beginnings of a fight or flight response, and it was abundantly clear that 'flight' was clearly winning.

She was slowed, by the need for stateliness, by the crowd that gathered just for her at the steps, by circumstances beyond her control. She saw Nigel's lover stand and take the brunette by the hands. He led her to the dance floor, guided her there and started on the next beat.

If Miranda had been closer, she might have been demonstrative, possibly effusively grateful for his intervention. As it was, she knew there was a chance that the time bought was very short, and so she finished her dramatic entrance, smiled for the crowd and let them admire; because that was how it had to be.

But she rushed it, because timing was everything now.


	5. Chapter 5

TDWP: On an Altar pt. 5

Nigel tried to get back to the table, but he had been stalled by architecture and the crowd. He had been talking with friend who worked the same profession, felt the change, had noted Miranda's descent, admired for a few brief moments, then realized almost immediately he had to get back to the table. His way had been blocked by one of the biggest men he'd ever seen, a line backer who was attending the ball with his girlfriend.

Which was fine, but a post was between him and an exit.

He did manage to get the gentleman's attention, but it delayed him and he knew the cost as soon as he saw Andy and Doug on the dance floor.

He knew his lover much better now and recognized a worried man when he saw him. He began wending his way, trying to anticipate where Doug and Andy would eventually stop, while at the same time navigating the abrupt and not so abrupt path interruptions. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the universe was trying to stall him every step of the way, but that was probably just his growing anxiety speaking. The pallor of his ex-coworker was not something he missed, nor did he miss how tightly the young man was holding her; as if she might bolt any second.

And of course, he had seen Miranda enter, as had everyone else...

He gulped as another realization hit and he hurried, trying to move quickly past strangers and known faces without being too obvious.

==TDWP==

It was a good thing the music supported a tighter hold. Doug had the feeling that if he let go for a moment, if he so much as attempted a looser spin, Andy would go sailing off, racing away on those heels, like Cinderella at midnight. Either that, or she would faint. It was a close race as to which. In some ways, that meant the dance was helping, because it would push the blood through Andy's system, force her to breathe, if not think. He was very aware that he was the support post of the moment, and so he stuck it, carefully moving them around the floor and exceedingly glad for habits taught with hours and hours of practice.

Meanwhile, despite everything, Andy was managing to look natural and able, paled skin and eyes too bright withstanding. He was actually very proud of her; proud of the fact that she was a good friend, proud that she'd thought of Nigel first and herself second, and proud that she was holding together when it was so obvious she might fly apart any second.

He didn't dare say so though.

He kept his attention out, letting his feet move by rote, and trusting Andy to do the same. And he nearly spoke his relief when he spotted Nigel and knew he was on his way. They caught each other's eyes and Nigel pointed, away from the door; a wise decision. Doug nodded, and shifted just enough to move them ahead and through the other partners on the floor, so they could meet. Somehow, Doug knew, it had to work out.

==TDWP==

Andy resigned herself. They passed the closest space toward the front and back exits twice and both times Doug had tightened his grip, stepped them away with beautiful alacrity. She knew she wasn't leaving yet. Knew he was hoping for a miracle.

She was giving up on them.

The dancing helped and she attempted to breathe in, breathe out. She should be able to do this. She'd been meditating for years now, but Andy was seriously discombobulated. It had been ages and ages since she'd felt this way, compromised by feelings that were too intense and a need for air and freedom that seemed much too far away.

She let herself follow Doug's lead, remembered how to surrender to the dance. She also remembered, in the way memory flashes at the bad times, how her Mom had insisted that eventually she'd find her grace, grow into her legs, and then she'd want to know how to dance like "old people." Now she blushed at her teen arrogance, but found herself grateful for the foresight.

Doug began moving toward the inside of the floor, but she was beginning to reconstruct herself again, form a brittle connection to her usual serenity. She was grateful her friend had bought her time, had been there to hold her, even if it was in a formal embrace. She knew it could not last, the music would end and then...

She would do what needed doing.

==TDWP==

At last, she was free of the crowd. Miranda felt smiled-out much earlier than usual and it was cutting a sharp edge to her expression more than she intended. She noted those who braved her presence did not tarry. It probably helped that she stayed on the move, foregoing her normal early, stand around and meet and greet. She glanced around to where she last saw Emily and Serena, and beelined toward them, somehow moving quickly without appearing to do so.

People flowed out of her way, scattering. She saw the two women uprooting themselves and moving toward her, somehow intuiting her need. They met her halfway and she made her order without a preamble. "I will be attempting to retrieve Andrea, but if I am unable, I will be relying on you to keep her here, until I arrive."

Emily looked as if she might want to question, but was forestalled by Serena. "As you wish, Miranda. We will guard the door."

The older woman did not reply, but peeled away, toward the dance floor calculating what needed to be done versus what she could do or even would do.

At first Doug thought he was imagining things. That was the hazard when one saw things on the twirl. It had its own illusions as one's peripheral vision caught the edges of movement by others both on and off the ballroom floor. Yet at the same time, one had to rely on those quick snippets of visual information; coaches on the side, locational vibes, and, if you were a professional, reading the faces of the judges.

Or in this case, one Miranda Priestly. He had watched, if one could call that, as the older woman appeared, as if by magic, on a side where they were closest. Then in an almost invisible gesture, between face and hand motion, she had, made what was essentially an order.

Nigel was on the other side. He could not see Miranda. He could see Doug. But really there was no real signal that the young man could give. He could see him though, anxiously waiting for their arrival and knew he would worry.

Doug also knew one very important thing. When it came to Miranda, it was generally best to accede the demand; no matter how subtly given. He had learned that from Andy, actually, and then had learned to understand it from Nigel. And he was mindful that his lover was part of Miranda's entourage, part of her favored group and, most special of all, a friend.

Friendship, oddly, was what tied them all, in thick strands of relationship, and it was their true reason for being here; especially Andy. She would not have come without friendship. She would not have dared it, except to support Nigel and Doug. And Nigel was doing his part out of friendship, caring for Andy and for Miranda; both of whom he trusted. "She hardly ever explains, but she is usually right," had been one explanation of why. The other had been, "She looks after what is hers. Runway, her family. Her friends. She prioritizes though. She can hire assistants at a dime a dozen, but good one's she'll put through forge and fire and then send on to do wonderful things; wonderful things."

Andy was a wonderful thing in his life, who had driven them all nuts as she was steeled, because no one had understood the why. Not even Andy. Yet, even when she quit, she came out of it stronger, better. And he knew a secret, one that he hadn't told Nigel, but that maybe his lover had guessed. He knew the real reason Andy had left.

He made a decision and he hoped that Andy, who now seemed to be focusing on just getting through it without actually gritting her teeth, would not peg what was about to happen.

He wondered briefly if this counted as offering a sacrificial victim to the altar of a goddess, then chastised himself for the whimsical thought. He turned his mind, however, to what Nigel had told him. Whatever their past issues, Miranda's intent now was to help Andy or at least give her a new kind of opportunity. Such an offer was something that came along not very often and he could not, in good conscience, let it pass by.

He made his move.

==TDWP==

They changed directions. Once again Doug began guiding them through the crowd, carefully avoiding getting clocked by the swirling traffic. Andy helped by getting focused, staying in the moment as much as she could and not balking. It was all she could offer him.

She was dizzy, so she stopped watching the world and leaned against him, grateful that he was taller.

He finally spoke, a whisper of reassurance that managed to slide past the pounding of her heart; maybe because they were so close. "It's going to be okay."

She didn't see the need to reply to such a flat out fib, but she appreciated the gesture. This was, after all, why one had friends. Sometimes, even if it weren't quite true, one needed to hear the words.

He squeezed her gently, making the dancer's hold a brief hug. Then they spun, and though the music wasn't quite over, they arrived at a stop. He facing toward the outside of the dance floor, and she the inside.

==TDWP==

Miranda knew her expression was imperious, knew that any observant person would have picked up her very specific command. Even those for whom that command hadn't been issued to. They would speculate, arrive at conclusions based on body language, and act accordingly. The parameter around her person extended, growing in a circle, as people grew aware of an impending … something.

She wondered what those same people would make of it, if she stalked out to dance floor and met Douglas halfway. A dangerous smile edged her expression. They would make way, like they were doing now. That is, if they had common sense.

She waited, and was grateful that he did not push the issue. She'd watched as decision played out in his expression and grew aware in herself that if needed, she would. She would do whatever it took; like she always did.

The moment arrived, Douglas offered her, in his expression, a most unusual gift; a warning and a vulnerability, a trust. He was trusting her with his friend. He had no idea she had been trusting him with her heart.

They stopped, finally. Part of Andrea's back was exposed, bare. Miranda observed the tremble, which shivered across the younger woman's skin. She caught Douglas' eyes, and that was all the warning she gave him, before she stepped forward and did something rare, noteworthy.

She might as well have waved a flag, though she knew most would be politely ignoring by now. It would lead to talk, however. Not quite how she planned, and probably not on the topic she had originally hoped, but so long as it was not slander, she was prepared to deal with it. She made a mental note to contact public relations and then focused on what needed doing now.

The notion that Miranda was not a toucher always amused her. She had no idea who had started the rumor such a long time ago, but had let it go as it served her purpose; at work. In personal life, however, she touched and was touched by persons who knew her well; her spouses and lovers when she had them, her children, good friends. Then there were the social niceties, where cheek contact and air kisses existed in their own realm.

Touch, depending on how it was delivered, was its own message; one that had to be delivered both with care and surety. Doubt had to be discarded, because it carried and revealed with the barest contact. It's why she did not shake hands; aside from the fact she hated taking the hand of those who lacked confidence. Weak grips enraged her, because it made her feel as if she were wasting her time.

Miranda did not let herself experience a moment of doubt and so did not miss or fumble. Her hand landed softly and squarely in the middle of the the curve of the younger woman's back, and she allowed herself the intimacy of pressing, much too close; even knowing how it would inevitably be read by those who saw. But it needed doing. Andrea, whatever might happen next, needed the contact.

She experienced a thrill at the instinctive arch, the unconscious press back; one that might have been an opposite if the young man had been turned otherwise. It was time. She was once again glad she'd learned to modulate her tone in all circumstances. She kept her voice soft and whispered in the younger woman's ear, warmed it with a breath and felt the trembling response. "Come along, Andrea."

She was prepared to coax, but the young woman was still tuned to following subtle body signals. She turned with the pressure of Miranda's hand, just as the young man let her go. Miranda offered a second rarity. "Thank you, Douglas. I have her from here. That's all."

She did not wait for the young man's response, but began a subtle push and guide. She kept their bodies close, but not too; just enough to make sure that the younger woman would feel the support, even if she did not understand it. Miranda was aware of the glazed expression on Andrea's face. She supposed, in another life and with another person, she could have demanded that the young woman wipe it away, but for now it served a purpose and she found she truly did not mind. Let others make of it what they would.

==TDWP==

During her days at Runway, Andy had become almost preternaturally gifted at knowing exactly where Miranda was in relation to herself. It was a necessary skill, one that was almost zen and psychic in a combined package of crazy, which she'd had to acquire for survival's sake. While Miranda had managed to disappear from view and get lost in the crowd, Andy had known she would resurface eventually. Thus, even as Doug was finishing the twirl, she had known. She had absolutely known, without looking, who was behind her.

It was confirmed, not by sight, but by her alternate means of knowing; scent. Not that she had the greatest olfactory capacity, but rather, she had come to know the editor's particulars, very well. Again, for the sake of survival. She knew what Miranda smelled like, had a mental catalog of perfumes and delicate odors that the woman favored and that favored the woman. She knew what was worn with what, and when. Miranda's philosophy of accents carried over even to those kinds of details.

The belt was always different, or rather, that was the great symbol in Andy's mind of what she understood. Minute differences, especially with Miranda, always meant something.

In this case, the scent was a siren call, an evocation of near pheromones, that added a spike of thrill to already trembling knees. Andy knew this particular olfactory flavor was the kind that had to be lightly applied and then had to warm for awhile on the skin to really start glowing and once it did, the scent was there as ambiance and recognizable as a calling card.

She wasn't in a mental space to figure out how Doug had arrived at the choice, but knew him well enough that it had to be a good intentioned, if misplaced decision. She could not blame him, though later, she might tell him why he shouldn't have. As it was, she was caught in a whirl of sensations, some of which carried over with the strong impulse to run. That, she knew, would also be a mistake, like signalling the hunt to a predator.

Instinct, therefore, kept her still, if not motionless.

She wasn't prepared. Nothing in her experience with Miranda had even suggested the possibility. She did not, ever in her life, expect to feel Miranda's hand on her person, let alone the press of her body; which was surprisingly warm and solid. Andy did not mean to lean back, but her body gravitated, moved on its own, as if responding to some deeper, needful call.

Then when the other woman spoke, whisper soft and still commanding, Andy's long practice of heeding Miranda snapped into place and something else too. Panic still rode in her, but it was adroitly redirected, as she was guided into walking away with the editor. A part of her head reminded herself that she should not allow herself to be alone with Miranda. The other part demanded and clamored for it.

Wasn't she supposed to say hello sometime by now? She had been practicing. Where was the hello? Wasn't she supposed to manage suave responses and show how worldly-wise she had become?

Too late. Too late.

"Breathe," Miranda ordered, still gently.

The breath shuddered through her frame, hurt a little, but it happened, because Miranda commanded it of her.

Oh yes. Now she remembered why. Now she remembered. She would jump off the bridge, if Miranda needed or even maybe just asked. She wanted the other woman to ask so many things. That was the why of Paris. The real reason had so much to do with what Andy wanted, what she needed and what was unattainable.

Miranda was wearing her dress!

Andy thought she probably ought to tell the other woman, sometime soon. So much she ought to say, like how she had contacts who assisted her, helped her with choosing the right cloth and determining and setting stones, who walked her through a million tasks or she paid them to do it. She had wanted quality, had demanded to be the standard and received. She'd learned some tricks from Miranda that way.

"Game face on, Andrea. Keep breathing."

Andy managed to cast a glance at Miranda then, not quite disbelieving, but checking to see that she understood. The hand at her back, the feel of Miranda's body so close and practically snug, was distracting and … amazingly comforting. The other woman's expression was pleasant, not unkind, sociable, but that sociability was directed out; not at her.

Reprieve then? Even if it were temporary, Andy grabbed at it. The younger woman managed to pull a semblance of her usual brightness together. She did not quite manage a smile, which continued to lend seriousness, but the tautness of her expression eased; and just in time.

Her attention swiveled and she caught sight of a person determined to dispense with caution and intersect with them.

"Miranda, I knew you were up to something," The woman said, eyes bright and amused. She was a striking person, older, but obviously well-preserved and gowned to impress. Andy thought she should remember her, but she was too frazzled to recall the name. "But then, you always knock 'em out of the park. I'd ask the designer, but I think I have to forgo that in favor of asking, who is this delectable?"

The editor might have sighed in exasperation, except, technically, this was one of her long-time friends. A woman of power had to have confidants and equals outside their domain, or they did not last long at the top. Miranda was already near Andrea, but she moved protectively closer. Her friend had an eye for young things, but she would respect a boundary if declared, even if subtle. Miranda made sure she understood. "You've met her before, Nan, though at the time she was an assistant. And I know you are familiar with her work. You have commented often enough on it." She let her fingertips slide lightly against the younger woman's back with light, but obvious possessiveness, and then her palm settled comfortably again. It was a completely unconscious movement on her part, considering the fact that the other woman could see it. At the same time, though, Miranda's expression narrowed warningly and then, because it was her nature, she dared, "This is my Andrea. If you want to know the designer, you must speak with Nigel. You do recall I mentioned his new suit."

Andy's breath caught. 'Of course,' she thought. 'Of course. Nigel's party. That must have been where...' She couldn't finish the logic trail, but it was enough to paint a vague picture of possibility. A form of relief skittered through her. It wasn't total, but suddenly the ability to breathe without having to consciously tell herself to do it, returned. Only then did she register the possessive, and not knowing what to do with it, disregarded it as something extravagant that Miranda would say.

The other woman managed to only look a little startled. Then she exhaled, and said with a quiet smoothness, "Ah. Yes. I shall. And, my goodness. The Andrea. How unexpected." She cocked her brow at Miranda, "I shall expect a report in full." She glanced around the room, "But obviously not here." She smiled pleasantly then, and leaned over and pressed her cheek against Miranda's and then, to the younger woman's surprise, Andrea's. The woman whispered, "Lucky girl. So glad you're returned. She's been absolutely impossible without you."

Then, she pulled back away from them, waved and smiled and steamrolled away.

Andy managed a brief, "What?" But the question, which was only partial, had no answer; at least not from Miranda. Nor, it seemed, was there to be time for an exploration of any potential topics related to her confusion and dismay.

As if the other woman's visitation was signal, others soon arrived to make their obeisance to Miranda and to gawk at the young woman by her side.

==TDWP==

As soon as Nigel spotted Nan coming toward him, he knew that Miranda was either tweaked or had changed the plan or both. Probably both. The woman, a wealthy socialite, was someone the editor had known a long time and he knew her to be brutally savvy and brilliant. She was part of a very elite group of powerful women that Miranda socialized with regularly. If he handled this wrong, he was baked.

He glanced at his lover, who had already saved some of the situation and offered a half-smile. "The gauntlet begins, I fear."

"Well, when you have a chance, you can tell Miranda what happened."

A genuine, if slightly caustic laugh emerged. "She won't care and she won't want to hear it. I messed up. The piper comes to make me pay."

"I'll back your play," Doug said with equanimity. Nigel was reminded, for the umpteenth time in the space of less than ten minutes, why he loved him.

"I'm so keeping you forever."

Doug grinned. "That's because I'll always be your younger man."

"And you can keep me in the style to which I've become accustomed. I depend on it." Nigel's eyes warmed and it carried with him as he turned to greet the woman Miranda had sent over. "Nan! How wonderful to see you."

==TDWP==

An awareness niggled at Andy. She was not necessarily comfortable with the awareness or with events, but she had enough time to settle, while being introduced to people who made or broke worlds. It was a simple thing, really, a gelling of something she already knew about the shapely woman beside her.

Miranda knew designers and she knew people, not just as in the who was who, but as in an innate understanding of human nature. She knew all the styles and all things fashion and spoke it like a native language. She was brilliant, hard to fool, could spot a fake miles away and had ways of finding out what she wanted to know and was completely scary in her ability to intuit the gaps.

More, Andy was being introduced to movers and shakers, with great aplomb and a confident self awareness that did not indicate any sort of lack of knowing; not to mention how Miranda's maneuvering had included some very thrilling caresses. The last one had involved fingernails butterflying along her spine. Andrea's heart was still pulsing a powerful beat, but that last caress had caused the blood that pumped out of it to suddenly to head places south.

Miranda was not angry. She was not ignoring; though she had not spoken directly to Andy, but she was not giving her hostile glares either. Though she had handed out one or two to others, during this surprisingly sensual perambulation around party. And then, there were the introductions themselves, which, while proper in the sense of doing the job, also had begun to make it very clear to the young woman that a claim was being staked and, if things kept progressing, territory would inevitably be marked.

It was terrifying, but in a wholly different way than what she'd experienced earlier.

==TDWP==

A lull and a bit of strategic retreat to a more secluded location allowed Miranda to finally snag two drinks. She thought they both might need the fortification . She handed one glass to Andrea and kept one for herself. The young woman sipped immediately, while the silver-haired woman watched to make sure it was not too quick.

It wasn't.

Andrea had finally composed herself.

The quiet moment brought out a comment, past the first early question, which Miranda had known to be mostly about shock. Once her free hand was once again located on the young woman's back, which seemed now its accustomed place, Andrea spoke. Her words were softly delivered and held surrender. "You know."

Miranda supposed she could have said any number of things, but she did not like to waste words. "Yes."

Andrea took a longer, heftier sip. Then, she breathed a near silent laugh. "You kept sending people to Nigel."

"Only very important people." Miranda's expression turned stern, "He was supposed to stay with you."

"To be there when I saw you." Andy turned then, not too quickly, and without losing Miranda's touch. She gazed thoughtfully at the other woman and was very aware of how close they were standing, hugging close; lover close. Close enough to see vulnerability, but at the same time, choice. She realized she could say anything right now, ask the questions such as how or why, dig for details. The editor would answer. Andy knew it. What she said instead was, "I wish he'd told me it was for you."

Miranda had been touching her all evening, making her slightly crazy. That had to be the explanation for why she touched the other woman's face with her fingertips and let them linger. "I might have made different decisions." She closed her eyes, "Crimson wouldn't have been right tonight. It wouldn't fit. But you look so good in it. Then again, you look so good in everything."

"Andrea." Miranda whispered her name and as the young woman had leaned into her, she now pressed against her. "Look at me."

She did and she dropped her hand away.

Miranda missed the contact instantly. "I don't care about the gown. It's lovely, and I love that you designed it and I yearn to tell the world of your brilliance. I even hope you will let me."

"You live on hope."

They both remembered that day; not one of the better ones. "Always," Miranda whispered, grateful that the younger woman hadn't stepped away right that moment. It would have stung.

"You probably crossed me off your list, of hope I mean. When I... well... In...That place."

"That place?" Miranda's expression blanked, but she knew.

"Paris." See, it came out perfectly fine. Maybe a little sharply, but easy. Why she had difficulty with saying France, when it was Paris that had been the site of all the problems, she would never know. She wondered when Miranda would figure out that she hadn't said her name yet. "I had to leave, but I'm sorry how I did it."

"Well, HR wasn't happy."

"HR?"

"Company phone. And Irv hates when any little thing impacts the budget. You would not believe how many phones we lose to assistants."

Andy blinked and then despite herself barked and muffled a laugh. A little despair colored it. "Disappointed you."

Miranda couldn't deny it, because it was true; just...

She drew the young woman close again. "I told myself it was a professional disappointment, that I expected better of you..."

"I expected better of me, but by then... You stirred me up."

"My job."

"No. It wasn't the job. It was you."

"Oh." Miranda paused. "Yes. Well. And you."

Andy blinked at her, and then exhaled and "Oh," in return.

"You were wearing Christian Thomson that morning."

"I was wearing..." Andy blushed then, finally relieving that pallor. "I was trying to warn you."

"I am aware, and sans top."

Andy decided dark corners were a good thing, wished she were more in shadow that moment.

"I admired the daring, and some of the delivery. It gave me much to think upon. Though, I wish you had not let me scare you off."

"I should have given two weeks notice."

"I would have written the same note."

"You would have?"

"Mm. It was not only about leaving your post. It might have been a little about ambition and its pursuit, but I was disappointed. In losing you. It was quite abrupt. And the timing. Truly atrocious. You are aware. France at the height of the event, for one thing. I missed you instantly."

"You did." Andy uttered the words as fact, understood it immediately. "Me too."

"I know." Miranda glanced about, considered. "Are you ready to leave?"


	6. Chapter 6

TDWP: On an Altar pt. 6

Again Miranda guided, leading them both through the crowded social waters with careful aplomb to the specific destination, or rather persons, she had in mind. She stepped back only slightly from Andy, giving a little more room, but not too much. They had found a rhythm in the closeness and she utilized it. More, those present had come to expect it, save for the less observant.

A few people stopped to greet them. Andy was much more relaxed by this time, though she still limited her conversation, choosing to let the focus stay on Miranda. The other woman experienced a welling of affection, as she knew far too many persons who would have attempted to leap to shine in her place. Not that she would let most persons get away with it.

Eventually they closed in on Miranda's targets.

"Emily. Serena," the editor greeted them.

"Ah. You found her," the Brazilian said warmly. "Hello again Andy. Miranda, your timing is perfect, as usual. I have been trying to convince Emily to come to the dance floor with me. Now she will have no excuse."

"Oh, I can come up with more," Emily declared. Her words were sharp, but her expression was soft when aimed at her lover.

Serena, the taller of the two, offered a mouse-ate-the-cat grin. "But you won't." She extended her hand and the redhead took it.

"You will at least look good doing it," Miranda said easily, an especially bright twinkle in her eyes.

"True. Especially Emily." grinned Serena. The blonde glanced at her lover and her eyes, once again, might have been a match to the fire. Emily, who had managed not to blush through the whole evening, now did. The Brazilian was holding nothing back in front of Miranda, apparently.

"Serena," the Brit started, and then looked a little startled as she realized they had been joined by a fifth person.

Nan, her expression quite serious, joined the conversation as if she'd always been there. "Hello, all. Emily, you look positively dangerous and edible. Were you not attached to this tall, leggy one, I would expend every effort to snatch you up. That gown is delicious on you."

Once again the Brit found her skin flushing warmly. "Thank you," she managed and smiled.

"It is almost as if it were made just for her," Serena said agreeably. "Or me. I can't decide which."

Nan grinned suddenly, but it was Miranda who said, "Given the designer, it is a distinct possibility. Certainly when she gave her permission to have it made, she may have had you in mind. In fact, as I recall, she insisted on a redesign because it was for Emily."

Emily blinked and then stared. "You had it made and sent me a personally designed gown?"

"Yes," Miranda said easily.

"But … but..." Emily was assailed with too many questions at once.

"Ah, which does bring me to what I came over here for, though I had every intention of waiting until later, I simply can not. Nigel and I had a lovely conversation. He had images on his cell-phone of all places. Did you see that suit? So handsome." Nan stepped closer, as if including them in the secret. "He did warn me the designer was very, very exclusive and sometimes difficult to reach. He did not say her name and suggested I take it up with you, Miranda. Are you making me run the gauntlet because of last week? Back and forth. I promise it was accidental. Also, your friends can be quite stubborn."

"Do you include yourself?" Miranda teased.

Everyone except Nan and herself looked slightly startled.

The other woman said, "Of course. Which is why I dug a little. Still mum. But did let slip a few details, which is why I simply had to take the opportunity now. Before you left."

"I assure you, I still take your calls." Miranda arched a brow.

"Yes, but there is no guarantee she will." Nan pointed.

"You!" Emily's tone was outraged. "You did this!" She waved her hand down, indicating her gown.

"Em," Andy began pacifying, "It isn't what you think."

"Oh, but it is," Miranda said, and then she addressed the issue very completely and turned her attention on Andy. "She drew and designed the dress, ordered specific colors and textures, sent the fabric, provided excruciatingly detailed patterns, threatened Nigel with death if he did not get it right and Emily was upset..." Her expression was affectionately tolerant. "All we did was provide the seamstress."

"Not real death..." Andy protested weakly. "And I would have handled the sewing, but we were already working on the other gown." She added absently, and then she turned to her friend, "It's just... Look, really Emily, it's not a big deal. If you hate it now, I understand. Just, if you don't like it, don't waste it. Give it..."

Now Emily smacked Andy on the shoulder. "Give it away! Are you insane? This is my gown. Mine, Andrea Sachs, and you will not dictate to me what I do with this dress, even if you are the designer."

"I'm not a designer, Em. I'm just..."

"Nan," Miranda interjected. "Is Andrea a designer?"

"Well, of course she is. One of the most exclusive. Obviously. Which does bring me to..."

"Miranda," Andrea started.

The editor turned and narrowed her gaze at the young woman and arched a brow, "Really, Andrea. Nan understands that your designs aren't just for anyone." Then she smiled a tiger smile, one which caused the young woman to gulp. "She just wants one of her very own. I'm sure she'll keep the origins to herself."

"Like a sieve," Emily stage whispered.

Nan grinned, "Oh, so true. But I will try, at least for the first hour. I need something for the benefit in three months. Is that enough time?"

Andy felt a little wobbly, but before she could become too distressed, she felt Miranda step a little closer. "I'm sure it is," the editor answered for her. "She has several drawings to..."

"No, no, no..." Andy said, not really thinking about the fact she sounded like she'd told Miranda no. As soon as Miranda offered the previous works, she knew she needed to put a stop to that line of thinking. She might not be a designer, but those dresses had been made with specific dimensions. "Even if I were to do it, it would have be fresh. Those drawings weren't for her. I don't mean this badly, but they were well, for a specific body type." Miranda's, she now realized, but that was a whole other discussion. "Hers is her own." She looked at the other woman, really taking her in. "We'd need to do a fitting."

"Of course. At your convenience."

"And talk. I need to get to know you. I mean, past... well... previous introductions."

"I'll have someone contact your people. I'll get the number from Miranda tomorrow. Is that alright?"

"I …"

"Of course it's alright, Nan." Miranda reassured the other woman.

"Excellent. Well, then, I'm off." She lifted a hand and waved slightly and then left with a big smile of triumph on her face.

"But, wait. When did I say yes?"

"I believe it was right after you said no." Serena smiled tolerantly. "Or a close approximation of it."

"It sounded like a yes to me," Emily agreed. "Though I am a little confused. I thought you hated fashion."

"I didn't hate fashion. Much. I just..." Andrea was staring out, trying to grasp what had just happened. "There are far too many belts to choose from, sometimes."

"That's why we have Miranda," Serena said firmly.

The editor offered one of her more genuine smiles to the art editor. "I hope you remember that on Monday."

"I always do," the Brazillian grinned back. "So. Andy, when do I get my dress?"

==TDWP==

The pop and flash was pretty much all Andy remembered of their walk to the car. She was still a little glazed. She had mumbled, before they stepped out, "But I don't have anyone for her to call," and then had gone silent, but pretty.

Roy had the door to the car already open and ready. Andy slid in and then to the side. Miranda followed with easy grace and settled in. The door shut them in. Miranda turned a little to gaze at the younger woman and realized that she had not planned for this moment. She had not originally intended to go anywhere with the brunette.

Yet here they were. "I understand you have a new residence?"

The last time Andy had been in a car with Miranda, they'd been in Paris and the discussion there-in had led to one of the more life-altering decisions of the both of their lives. The brunette's body language shifted slightly, and though she turned toward Miranda like a flower to the sun, her eyes were wide and pupils dilated.

Miranda reached and took the younger woman's hand in her own, clasping it with both hands. "Where would you like to go?"

Her words were a puzzle. "Home where you are."

Miranda let go with one hand and grasped the seat in front of her. She leaned and said quietly. "Do you remember Andrea's new address Roy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Take us there, then."

Miranda could recall a time when Andrea chattered.

The silence, however, was not unnerving; perhaps because she had not let go of the younger woman's hand. Now the back of Andrea's hand rested on her thigh and her fingers threaded trustingly through Miranda's so their hands were palm to palm.

It was restful.

They arrived at their destination, still in that quiet space. Miranda noted that Roy drove the car into a wide, generous garage space rather than park on the road by the sidewalk. Interesting. As if arriving had been her signal, Andy turned and finally spoke. "Have you had dinner?"

Miranda glanced down at her dress, then at Andy.

"I'll take that as no. Are you hungry?"

"Where was this assertive person earlier?"

"Scared to death. Now I'm just scared." Andy paused a beat, "But hungry."

A small smile graced the older woman's face. "I accept."

==TDWP==

Most elevators made Miranda feel claustrophobic, but Andy's was huge, like their own island. By the time they made it to her living space, the editor was half-way to convincing herself that she needed one for Elias-Clark and wondering how she might convince Irv to put it in the budget.

Then again, Andy had grabbed her hand almost as soon as they'd both exited the vehicle. Perhaps what she really needed was to demand the young woman accompany on all elevator rides.

==TDWP==

"Welcome to my humble abode," the Andy said.

Miranda's gaze slid around the open space. She decided that humble was not the exact word, even if rich wasn't either. She might not have instantly known, were it not for the woman by her side, whose home this belonged to. A part of her mind, from long ago, had assigned a mid-western taste to Andy and had forgotten to take the label away, even though the young lady had developed a stronger personal style. Now she realized that the brunette had grown a great deal. From the artworks that were hung, to the thick carpet that adorned a wooden floor, to a couch that could seat four quite comfortably, Miranda gained the sense of a woman who knew herself and was well traveled.

"Do you have guests often?"

Andy's smile was quick, "No. Just you. Nigel stopped by once. Doug a few more times." She followed where Miranda's eyes lingered. "I just like big furniture." The next phrase slipped out, despite herself, "You should see the bed."

The blush was charming and she tried to extricate herself, starting with their handclasp. "I'm sorry, that came out …."

Miranda snagged the hand back, but only held it long enough to make her point. "I am not. I look forward to seeing the bed."

The next blush was even better and caused the older woman's expression to turn smug.

"Food. I should make food." Andy pointed in a direction. "Kitchen?"

"In this case, I will follow where you lead."

Andy's eyes widened and Miranda remembered, not for the first time, how very much she enjoyed teasing the young woman. Though she admitted to herself, it was much, much better now.

Miranda slid onto the high-backed stool and watched as Andy began to concoct a quick meal of finger-foods. She noted the economy and grace of the young woman, whose expression still remained mostly open. It was perhaps a little less revealing now, but Miranda had familiarity and time on her side.

The brunette stepped back from the small platter and wiped her hands on a towel, then she turned and looked at her companion. "I know this is probably going to sound as if I am just trying to get you out of that gown, but would you like a robe?" Her brows wrinkled adorably in thought, "Or an apron?"

"Perhaps the question is, do you want me out of the gown? If so, I will take the robe and we will do so with an understanding. If not, then I will take the apron and we will hold a different understanding. I can say, if given the choice, I would prefer the robe."

The young woman breathed a sound that was very near a squeak. "If you will excuse me for a moment?"

"As you wish." She supposed that sometimes everyone needed time to compose themselves and she was willing to give Andrea that time. She did, however, feel slightly smug about it.

Perhaps three minutes later, if that long, the brunette returned, padding in on bare feet and dressed, if one might say that, in a silk robe of painted dragons that ended at mid thigh and tied modestly in the middle. She blushed as she extended another such garment toward Miranda and said, "I have two bathrooms. The one off the hallway is somewhat small, has as shower and is just on the side of the guest bedroom. The one in my bedroom is … larger." Miranda did not think one could blush more, but Andrea managed it. "You are welcome to use either."

"Will you undo me?" She took the robe and slid off the tall chair. Miranda briefly wondered if Andy had shimmied out of her dress.

The brunette, who apparently was at the end of her verbalization skills stepped around and close. Careful fingers undid the top clasps of the gown, which held the dress together at the back, and then she felt them just a little higher than the hips and the hidden clasp and zipper were also undone.

Miranda turned, folding the robe over her arm, and looked the other woman in the eyes, searching. She saw trepidation, but she also saw desire, want. She reached with her freer hand and pulled the Andy close, with very little resistance. She realized that, right that moment, in her heels, she was of a height, let her gaze flicker down. Then she leaned forward and was met more than half way.

Oh!

In that moment, she learned two things; first, she wanted to kiss Andrea always and always. Second, the young woman truly knew the art of kissing, how to share and give and take.

The kiss lengthened, sweetened. Miranda wondered, actually wondered, why the hell they had not done this sooner. It felt … amazingly right and incredibly stirring.

Pulling away was honeyed torture; a necessity, but not one without price.

"Are you still hungry?"

Andy's eyes were closed, but they fluttered open as she tried to process the question. "What?"

Miranda smiled gently, "Do you think we should put away the food, Andrea? I don't think we'll be eating quite yet."

They didn't rush to the room, but neither did they dawdle. Miranda slipped out of the gown while Andy put away the food. She was amused to see the deliberate effort the young woman took to not peek; as if she would not be seeing everything soon anyway.

The older woman had long ago dispensed with false modesty. One could not work in her industry without having gotten naked or close to it several times. Of course, her days of walking a runway were long, long past, but she'd done it for the experience, so she would know - from a professional point of view - what one should and should not expect or demand from such performances.

It did mean learning how to dress and undress quickly. She knew that some of her employees were mystified at her seeming ability to change from one outfit to another in a few short minutes.

It came with practice.

As she draped the robe over her shoulders, she glanced at Andy and felt a grin tug at the edges of her lips, and made a small amendment to the thought; or desperation.

As soon as the robe, this one decorated by white tigers and lotus flowers, was wrapped and and the belt tightened, Andy returned to her side. The young woman liberated the gown, which Miranda was holding oh so carefully. And then extended her palm.

In romance novels, one often read that hungry lovers collided with walls and furniture as they kissed and stroked each other in desperation.

Miranda hungered, but she found she adored the gentle pace and forethought that allowed Andy to simply lead her into the bedroom.

The brunette did not let go of her hand until they were well inside and Miranda was doing her best not to gawk. But she allowed herself to really take it in once Andy "left," to hang the gown safely away. The bed was not just big. It was humongous and decadently arrayed with silk sheets, an expansive comforter and several kinds of pillows. A person could get lost in it, she thought.

Andy returned and stood beside her. Her arms were folded. "You might be wondering why," Andy said. "Or not, but... aside from merely enjoying it, that bed isn't going to go anywhere without some heavy lifting. Before F-f...Paris, Nate left me. He took the bed. It was inconvenient."

Miranda's fist clenched hard and her body stiffened. Her mind raced with anger. Andy reached down and took one of the other woman's hands, fist still folded, into both of her own and just held it. She kept her eyes, however, on the broad expanse of the bed. "He's never been in this bed. No one has. Except for me. And soon, I hope, you."

The older woman's nostrils were still flared, but her hand opened like a flower, crossing Andy's palm gently. "You never mentioned..."

"It wasn't work related and what was there to say? If I'd mentioned, it might have come off as... I don't know... weak. It was personal and bringing it up might have caused unnecessary problems. It was better not to say anything."

Miranda shook her head, knowing she disagreed in spirit, if not essence. If she'd known. If she'd only known...

Andy tugged at her hand, started to move forward. The editor followed, let herself be guided, until they were both sitting on the side of the bed where the sheets and the covers had already been unfurled. The younger woman leaned forward, resting her hand at the tie of Miranda's sash.

"I wish," Miranda started, but Andy's lips were suddenly on hers, blazing a kiss of heat and desire. The editor did not forget, but she did let it go; for the moment.

The sash of the editor's robe was undone and pulled open by nimble fingers. Miranda's breath caught as she felt the younger woman's fingertips glide along the skin of her abdomen. The boldness thrilled her, and she refused to be alone in this.

Andy's robe opened with ridiculous ease and Miranda chuckled appreciatively into the kiss. She sculpted her hand along the younger woman's body, up and over soft skin, brushing against her breast, and then over the shoulder. The robe slid off, as silk does. She realized that everything, all the sensations she was feeling, seem doubled in effect.

The younger woman smiled into the kiss, which sweetened the moment, and finished shrugging out of the soft garment, until she was entirely nude. Miranda thought, maybe she didn't just shimmy out of the dress, maybe she ripped everything off. It was a whimsical idea that turned her on immensely, but she suddenly felt overdressed.

Andy held her close, with one arm, while her free hand explored where it willed. The silver-haired woman's breasts were aching from the way the brunette teased through the fabric of the strapless bra. The way her fingertips brushed against the edges, without quite taking off the cloth was slowly driving the editor to the brink. Action simply had to be taken. "Take it off."

The request was husky, but the demand was clear. Andy acted immediately, but without undue haste. The undergarment was carefully removed, but less carefully discarded as it was dropped without regret upon the floor.

Andy guided Miranda by the shoulders and pushed her back until she was reclining on the bed. Tender lips pressed against the older woman's desire-flushed skin; starting at the center of her collar bone, then lining down her abdomen in quick presses. The editor felt fingertips loop through the slender strap of the delicate thong she wore and then the tug.

Andy's smile was sultry and impish, with the slightest hint of impatience. Miranda, who was in no better state, lifted her hips and was freed from another inhibition. As the Andy carefully slid the paltry amount of cloth over Miranda's feet, her grin expanded. "You do rock the heels."

"Perfect balance helps." Blue eyes flashed with amusement.

"It's not just that, and you know it," Andy chided gently. Then, as if to emphasize the point, one hand took the heel of Miranda's foot and the other gently palmed her calf, lightly skimming. "It's the whole package, the way you move. All grace of the tiger combined with that 'damn the torpedoes' attitude. I still remember you walking away from me, when you were so mad about... Well, when you sent me on that impossible quest for Harry Potter and steak and not in that order. My god. My god. I thought I'd lost everything and it was made all the worse by how damn hot you were were."

"Are you saying I walked away first?" Miranda sat up on her elbows and looked at her lover. Her brow arched dangerously. Her leg now rested on Andy's lap. The young woman's fingernails were lightly trailing in random caresses.

"Hmm?" Andy's attention was elsewhere, on the silky feel of the dark satin against her palm, how strong and sleek and beautiful her leg was; so exactly Miranda. "I may be saying how sexy you are when you're torqued, but I suppose technically, you did. Walk out on me first. Then you let me back. So, then it doesn't qualify as a first any more." She glanced up then, as if she'd had a sudden awareness. "I think that's when I knew I might be a little gone on you ... I mean... it was such a deliberate choice to go back, Miranda. I could have left. I was going to. I even called Nate to say I'd quit. And then..." She shook her head. "Well... a miracle. I... You could smell Christian Thomson?"

"On you. I can always smell you."

The shoe in Andy's hand was carefully removed from Miranda's foot, much more carefully than the underclothes had been. Then it was set beside the bed, also with care.

"Really?" Andy glanced up. "Me too. I mean... for you. Since we're talking." Then she blushed ferociously. "Does that mean, the times I went to visit Nate for lunch..." It wasn't many times, given circumstances, but there were a few chance opportunities that they grabbed. She did try to clean up, but...

"You were always admirably discrete, but yes. I knew."

"I think I may be amazingly turned on by that." Andy blinked and blushed and lifted Miranda's other leg. "No. I know I am. Though... wow. I don't know whether I should apologize..."

"Never. Fresh love smelled exquisite on you. I was envious, but not yet possessive."

"Not yet..."

"Paris realigned my perspective. Among other things." Miranda said, eyes hot. "We can work out the parameters later, I think, if you wish. Permissions are much easier to live with than falsehoods. If Stephen had been truthful, you and I might not be here."

"Then thank god for liars. I've had some dalliances over the last few years, but honestly, my vision has always held you in sight. I just never thought... ever... that..." Andy grinned fiercely. She took off the other shoe. "I can hardly wait until I smell of you."

This time it was Miranda whose flush lit up her skin.

Andy's hands next slid up Miranda's leg, both palms pressing against the satin, until she arrived at the cuff. Her fingertips gently rolled the stocking down, thrilling tiny caresses against soft, smooth skin. She paused to kiss just above Miranda's knee, then the shin. She lifted the foot as she pulled the stocking completely off and kissed the bare skin once it was visible. The stocking went flying away. "I love you in bare feet. I've never mentioned, but it's true."

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," Miranda husked, as Andy started on the other leg. More kisses, more caresses, and another stocking gone. The younger woman moved then sliding away and finally letting the other woman's leg go. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes," Andy said, as she stood. Then she moved until she was aligned with Miranda. She moved forward, pressing her knee at the point between the other woman's knees. The editor needed no more hint. She moved, sliding back a little, letting her legs part. Andy clasped her by her calves and "helped," until Miranda's feet were planted on the bed, legs akimbo.

She crawled between them, on hands, then knees; until she was crouched over Miranda and their breasts were almost aligned.

The editor grasped her lover's face in her hands, then kissed her warmly and then with much more fire.

Andrea whispered into the kiss, "Everything in me tingles for you."

Miranda pulled back, "Andrea," she breathed and then she laid her lips on the younger woman's cheeks, her chin and finally her lips again. "You might say I feel the same, but there is a proof."

"I better go find it then," the brunette husked. She grazed her lips against Miranda's neck, allowed her teeth to draw tiny nipping trail, slid her tongue along the curve. She supported herself with one hand, while the other caressed, slid teasingly along the skin of the editor's abdomen and up. Her fingertips slid over rounded breasts, along the crinkled rounds of her lover's nipples. She rolled the aching points, loving how they grew even more taut and responsive, until her lips had to join the fun.

Her tongue graced and teased Miranda's breasts, her mouth sucked and pulled, until the other woman groaned with the pleasure of it. The sound alone made Andy's skin rejoice, and sent trilling sensations of delight along her pulse points.

She wanted more.

Miranda's hands and lips were not still either. She had always been a woman of action. She caressed, drew her palms and fingertips over all the skin she could reach. But she had to pause and surrender, when Andy's attention refused to waiver, when she dedicated whole spans of lifetimes to just pleasuring her breasts until she throbbed, here and there and everywhere.

"Andrea, I must taste you. I must feel you ..." So much to do and so far away. That needed to change.

The younger woman pulled back, her expression heated. "Impatient?"

"Yes. You know how I like to be kept waiting."

Andy's lips captured Miranda's again as passion rose inexorably from those words. "You'd wait for me. If I asked nicely."

"Cheeky. Yes. Are you asking?"

"No." Andy shook her head and drew back. "But I have to move again. And so do you."

"You're lucky I'm the agreeable sort."

Andy had the grace not to outright laugh, but she did gently nudge her lover. "Fortunately we have a whole bed in which to prove it."

They managed, between kisses and caresses to get where Andy planned; on their sides, one leg slid under and one looped over. Facing, more or less in proper directions on the bed. The young woman no longer had access to Miranda's breasts, but she had plenty to otherwise entertain herself. Fingers threaded through trimmed and sculpted curls. Even here, nothing out of place. She blew her breath over the skin and tuft, felt a responding pat on her backside.

That was her only warning, before, as Miranda had warned, she was impatiently sought. "Oh my!" The only answer from the editor was a near purr of satisfied gratification. Her hips jolted despite herself, but she managed to hold off from an outright thrust. Until Miranda started doing "that thing" with her tongue. Then again, it was more than a thing. Miranda was utterly skillful and her tender assault nearly made Andy's eyes roll back with pleasure.

She gasped a breath and fought not to be too distracted, not yet. Not yet. But she was clenching in response, feeling the hastening tightness of sweetness overtaking her. She wanted a share in this. She spread Miranda gently, delighted in the texture and the colors, found the points she wanted and then pursued her lover's bliss with hungry abandon.

She tasted wonderful, like Miranda ought to taste, as she had imagined. She drank her up, sipped and licked; found the ripening hub and slid her tongue along it like it was a genie's lamp granting all wishes. Then she suckled it in, pulling it in for a deeper kiss, a tonguing caressful kiss. She hummed into it, let tongue and mouth explore. She found depth and filled it. Her arms wrapped around Miranda's hips to bring her closer, unaware of the near demanding sound she made. She lost herself to it then, lost herself in every way to the delight and wonder of it.

She was not alone. Not the only one supping the great feast, thriving on it. Miranda found her addicting, wanted only more and more. As much as she would give. She explored with fingertips, sliding against silked wetness, finding their home in Andrea. She pressed in with two and then as her need increased, the urge to utterly claim the young woman for her own, inspired three.

Andrea cried out with it, not quite there, but on the edge, so close; so very close. Miranda wanted it. Wanted to hear the young woman's cry of completion. Then she found herself plundered, felt the fair turn about and could not pull away from the summons.

They pressed and pulled each other, kissed in sacred bond against the lovers' jewel, drank each other up. They rose with it, felt the singing pressure of belly and flooded heat. It was no one thing. It was everything. Andy started it. "M-m Miranda! Miranda! Please."

"Yes. Now!" It was as if a switch was throne, as if the missing piece had been collected and plunged into the puzzle. They skyrocketed, erupted, cried out each other's name as if they were divinity incarnate. They were swirled into pleasure's deep abandon.

The intensity shook through them both, left them in wakes of pleasure that sparked through them with every tiny little motion. It took time to recover and they lay, intimately twined, catching their breaths, recovering what parts of their souls they could.

Andy slid away first, but only so she could turn and crawl slowly, leaving a trail of kisses along Miranda's side. By the time she arrived at the pillows, where the other woman rested, one arm under her head, she had manage to spark off several more small quakes in her lover's body. Miranda watched her with settle in, with heavy lidded eyes. "There you are." She lifted her free hand and slid her fingers through Andy's hair, brushing it back. "It seems you finally remembered my name."

Andy's laugh was breathless. She had been caught off guard. "Your name," she said, equally quietly, "is very precious to me and quite unforgettable. I... just have had some difficulty saying it lately."

Miranda's touch trailed to moist lips. Andy's tongue flicked out, a brief tease and taste. Miranda smiled. "Cured?"

"I don't know. We may have to try again and again. It's been years since I could say your name properly."

Miranda leaned forward then, and kissed her lover softly. "Then we will try as often as you need. I really hate pet names. I will accept darling. Try to avoid dear. Honey, if you really must."

The acknowledgment that there would be more, that there was a time foreseeable, overwhelmed the younger woman. Tears did more than threaten, they slid, unannounced and uncontrollable, but not unnoticed. Andy folded in, but Miranda drew her close and held her.

==TDWP==

Miranda touched the warm dark wood of the altar, appreciating the smooth finish of the piece. She was dressed, if one could call it that, in the robe again. Andy was re-preparing the finger-foods in the kitchen. She said they needed their strength.

Miranda, until just that moment, had been feeling quite strong. Now she felt, moved. Her hand grazed over the trim wood panel of the photo of Andrea's family, then moved to hover near the other image, one set aside, rather than across from the family photo. The frame was thicker and a touch more ornate, but it was a match for color, and accented the other pieces in place quite nicely. She stared, not a photo of Andrea, as one might think, but at an image of herself.

She did not know how the young woman had acquired it and was half afraid to ask. She supposed Nigel had a hand in it. It seemed like something he would do.

Before she could speculate more, Andrea arrived, carrying a platter and somehow managing two filled glasses at the same time.

Miranda liberated the glasses, preferring to avoid unnecessary catastrophe.

"You found the altar." Andy stepped closer, "It was a gift from my aunt. It's an art piece."

"It's lovely. Nice photos," Miranda said.

Andy smiled and then blinked. "Photos?"

She glanced over Miranda's shoulder and then blinked again. "But...how... but..." She glanced at the bookshelf and then back at the altar. "I can explain..." Except, really she couldn't. She had not framed that photo.

Miranda turned, her expression warm. "Nothing to explain. You told me of my worth to you earlier, did you not?"

"Well," Andy paused, and then gave up trying to figure it out. "Yes. Yes I did."

"So. You must love me."

"I really must. And have for a long time."

"And I you."

"Wow." Andy looked at the platter of food, and considered where a kiss that moment might lead. Then she looked at the altar again, trying not to feel spooked. "I think, we might want to go sit down. I have some thing I need to tell you about Aunt Dorene and her gifts."

"Intriguing."

"Depends on your perspective."

==TDWP==

Miranda chewed thoughtfully. She had not said a word during the young woman's explanation. Instead, she had listened and partaken of the platter and sipped her sparkling water. Andy wound down and appeared to be waiting with a touch of dread; as if Miranda would suddenly cut her off and go storming out, because of some possible mysterious influence.

Personally, Miranda was considering if she ought to send a gift in return and what kind. "Do you think she'd like to come to New York?"

Andy blinked. "Maybe. I... Why?"

"I was thinking of a gallery she might like. I am also thinking of my friend Nan. It's high time she found someone again."

"Miranda?"

"Ah. See, cured. But much too soon. I will have to devastate you with my lovemaking skills so you can be cured again." She popped a grape into her mouth, and smiled a tight-lipped, impish smile.

Andy gaped. "But... don't you see... it's possible this was..."

"Don't be ridiculous. Correlation is not causation. You made choices. As I made choices. It makes for a happy confluence of events. And even if there was a little magical push involved, I am fairly sure it was of the sort that leaves freewill quite active. Otherwise, you would have found yourself married to cook-boy, rather than eating dinner on this bed with me. Which, I might say, is a terrible habit..."

"In bed with you..."

"No. That is a naughty, must happen over and over again habit. I am speaking of eating food in bed."

"Oh. Well. Bedding can be changed out."

"My point, however, is that while I believe this was probably inevitable and possibly inspired, I do not however, come into this blindly. I wanted you far longer than you've had that altar. And, given certain revelations, you've wanted me just as long."

Andy cocked her head and then realized she did not have an answer that would not be the equivalent of shooting herself in the foot. "I think I'll just go with you on this one."

"A wise choice." Miranda reached and clasped Andy's hand. "As I won't let you argue me away, nor will I let you devalue your talents and skills. You will simply have to accept my word for it, if nothing else. I'm not going anywhere, at least, as far as you're concerned. You may as well face it, you're stuck with me." She squeezed lightly, and then kissed her lover.

Miranda was right, but she still thought she might have to thank her Aunt Dorene. After all, her life had changed quite a bit and... well... she had Miranda. Here. Now. And apparently, for always. Well, and that picture. Framed. Inwardly, Andy shrugged. Outwardly, she smiled into the kiss and surrendered.

End  
==^==

Inspiration

This is the poem that started me on the trek:

Benediction

A Poem by Claudia MelGregory

Benediction

© 2001

Had you told me then,

That you doubted my heart's affection,

I would have poured out the contents

Of that very heart.

I would have told you,

My Love, that you were more

Goddess Than woman to me;

That my heart lie beating in Sacrifice

Upon the altar of your Temple.

I would have told you that i Worship

Your beauty with the ardor of

A disciple.

That I knelt not before you

Peering up at you upon a

Pedestal;

But that I was humbled by the

Equanimity of your gaze.

I held you not above reproach

Nor held you high in Perfect

Esteem.

For you laid your failings bare.

Your shortcomings did you

Present naked before my eyes.

And in those Imperfections

I have found Perfection.

In your words of Devotion

I have found Absolution.

In your eyes mercurial,

Ever changing as the seasons,

I have found a constant foundation

In your Temperament, volatile,

Ever swaying as the weather,

I have found an anchor.

So I worship you:

Empress, Goddess of my Domain,

But not at your feet.

I worship at the door of your soul,

Praying each time I knock,

That this door will open.

I make confessions to you

In the confessional of our

Hallowed Love.

You are my Sacred Grace,

My Sweet Benediction.


End file.
